


God May Not Play Games But These Two Goobers Do

by indieninja92



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Also sometimes they smooch other people, Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Canon-Typical Drinking, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Fun with history, Games, Idiots in Love, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, because love looks like a lot of things and 6000 years is a REALLY long time to go without smooching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27438766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92
Summary: Beyond the basic necessities for life, there aren't many things that can be found across all human cultures. Games, however, are among them. From guessing games to board games, drinking games and games of chance, this fic follows the development of gaming throughout history as experienced by our favourite pair of idiots in love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 213
Kudos: 125





	1. 3004 BCE - Twenty Questions

**Author's Note:**

> hello, friends! this one has a simple enough concept - what if indie spent waaaay too long in a wikipedia hole reading about the history of games, and then decided to write a multichapter fic to make use of all that weird knowledge? so here we go - a romp through history with aziraphale and crowley hanging out, playing games, maybe some smooching later on - who knows! (me. i know.)
> 
> im posting this as i go, so im not going to commit to a schedule since art is hard lol but fingers crossed it wont take too too long and we'll have fun on the journey!
> 
> ill be updating the tags for the work as i go in case there's anything significant that comes up, and will include specific cws in each chapter's notes. as always, if there's anything you think needs to be tagged for or if i can help with anything all, just drop me a line.
> 
> im expecting this to be pretty well unbeta'd so if you spot any typo-sized mistakes or footnote fuckery, do let me know.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the Flood, Aziraphale finds himself unexpectedly taking refuge with none other than the demon, Crawley. Crawley introduces Aziraphale to two new concepts - food, and fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooo chapter one! let's get this show on the road! in this chapter, aziraphale and crawley do some cooking (much to aziraphale's consternation) and play a game of Twenty Questions.
> 
> cw for very brief and not at all perilous near-drowning (he's fine, just a bit soggy lol)
> 
> thanks to mortifyingideal for their encouraging words, and for telling me what coriander tastes like (soap-gene, represent!)
> 
> the stew they cook in this chapter is (fairly loosely) based on a recipe [this article](https://www.laphamsquarterly.org/roundtable/ancient-mesopotamian-tablet-cookbook) about using actual mesopotamian recipes to make actual food in the actual now-times which is NUTS, like we can make the food they were eating in 3000BCE?? dont look at me im having a moment
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hello!

Ropes. Cats. Dogs. Witches. Old women. Cow’s piss. Dung. Chair legs. Frogs. Frog’s beards. Cobbler’s knives. Cobbler’s apprentices. Cobblers.

In the next five thousand years, Aziraphale would learn that there was apparently no limit to the things humans would compare to heavy rain. He would eventually find his favourites among the many languages of the earth - the Czech, “Padají trakaře” - “it’s raining wheelbarrows” - enjoyed his favour for a long time, before being usurped by the Welsh, “Mae hi'n bwrw hen wragedd a ffyn,” “it’s raining old women with sticks.” If he’d ever heard of The Weather Girls (or Geri Halliwell, for that matter), he’d have joyfully added their offering to the list.

For now though, he had no such metaphors to lean on. It rained incomparably. Great, wet, dolloping drops, fat as his thumb, and falling faster and thicker than anything he’d known before. It rained like ruin. It rained like wrath.

Aziraphale leant forwards as he trudged, his feet slurping through what was left of the mountain path. The rain sluiced down over the mountainside, filling the narrow channel of the path until Aziraphale was wading through a fast-flowing current that came up to his knees. It pushed against him, making every step a small battle. He had to lean so heavily into his steps that he was bent almost double, inching up the path like a snail, coiled up on himself.

There was no point looking ahead - he could barely see anything beyond the tip of his nose. It didn’t matter. As long as he was going uphill, he was going in the right direction. He so wet he didn’t feel it any more, the borders of his body gone soggy and indistinct. His robe clung where it touched, and would have been embarrassingly see-through if it wasn’t for the mud that caked it.

Another step, and his foot slid out from underneath him, tipping him over with thick, muddy splash. The first twenty times it had happened, he’d been upset. Now, he just picked himself up and kept going. There was nothing else to be done.

“Hey!”

Aziraphale didn’t look up. He kept walking, legs aching with the effort of resisting the coursing current the road had become.

“Hey! Are you mad?!”

Must be, thought Aziraphale. Hearing voices - bad sign.

“Oh, for pity’s sake…!”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what happened next. He was taking a step, and had just reached the difficult middle bit, his foot pulled loose of the clinging mud but not yet safely replanted. There was a slipping, slithering sound, and he had just enough time to form the feeble hope it wasn’t a mudslide when he was hit bodily by something heavy and large and soft and… swearing?

He sprawled backwards with a splash, too surprised to resist. The river closed over his face and he opened his mouth to cry out but it filled with muddy water, or watery mud, and it was all he could do to keep from swallowing it. The current pulled at him with strong fingers, strong enough that he started to slip, inexorably, headfirst down the mountainside. A thought, dishevelled and dripping, dragged itself to the forefront of his mind.

“Oh, _bugger_.”

And then, the world disappeared. The water, the mud, the noise of thunder - snuffed out like a candle flame. Everything was dark and still.

Aziraphale had never been discorporated before. He had to admit, it wasn’t quite how he’d imagined it. He’d never known the lighting in Heaven to be anything less than eye-stingingly bright, for one thing. For another, there was the pervading smell of damp. And that didn’t seem right at all.

“What do you think you’re playing at, hmm?”

The voice was angry, which at least seemed about on par with Aziraphale’s interactions with Heaven. But there was something underlying the tone, beyond the exasperation. Something like… concern? Aziraphale relaxed slightly. Not Gabriel, then.

He was lying, he realised, on a flat slab of something cold and hard. Rock, it felt like. He eased himself up onto his elbows and blinked in the dark. There was a faint light coming from somewhere up ahead and he squinted, trying to see where he was.

“Where are you?” he said to his mysterious companion.

“What? I’m right- Oh… Hang on.”

There was a click, and a whooshing sound, and a fire flared into life a few feet away from Aziraphale’s feet. He blinked in the sudden light, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust.

A cave, neither particularly small nor particularly cavernous. Greyish light shone feebly at the entrance, barely making it a foot inside the cave walls before fading to nothing. And there, kneeling beside the fire, was Crawley.

“Are you alright?” said the demon. He had his head tipped to one side and was wringing out his hair, the great red mess of it twisted into a dripping rope.

Aziraphale considered the question. “Y… Yes, I think so,” he said slowly. “I’m not hurt,” he added, with more certainty.

Crawley waited, apparently expecting him to continue. Aziraphale wasn’t sure what to say. His head felt all fogged up on the inside, he couldn’t quite make his thoughts move as smoothly as they ought to. Crawley raised an eyebrow at him, waited a moment longer, then turned his away with a sigh.

Aziraphale thought dimly that he ought to say something, but he couldn’t think what. Instead, he watched as Crawley untwisted his hair, as much water wrung out of it as possible, and tilted his head to let it fall to one side in a tangled curtain. Then he started to comb his fingers through the curls, stopping now and then to work a knot loose. The firelight caught gold on red, Crawley’s sharp features grown soft with concentration. His fingers were long and fine, tapered where Aziraphale’s were blunt, and Aziraphale was mesmerised by their quick, easy movement. With a flick of his head, Crawley swung his hair to hang in front of his other shoulder, shaking it out once more to encourage it to dry in the heat of the fire.

He looked up then, too quickly for Aziraphale to look away. But if Crawley noticed him staring, he didn’t show it. He nodded at the space beside him by the fire.

“Come here,” he said, more command than invitation. “Get warmed up.”

Aziraphale shuffled forwards and settled down with a sigh. The heat of the fire was wonderful, licking at his skin wherever it was exposed to the air. He shivered, as if it took the sudden warmth to remind him he was cold. After a while, he realised that Crawley was still watching him, his brow furrowed.

“Aren’t you going to dry yourself off?”

Aziraphale blinked. The words would not resolve themselves into meaning. He was tired, he realised. Deeply, achingly tired. He didn’t think he’d ever been tired before. The thought of working a miracle, of even lifting his hand to do so, felt completely beyond him.

He didn’t know what expression crossed his face then, but it must have been thoroughly pathetic because before he knew it, Crawley was clicking his tongue like a discontented grandmother.

“Oh, for Satan’s sake,” he grumbled.

He snapped his fingers, drying Aziraphale with a surge of demonic power, a faint, peppery smell lingering on the air in its wake. Aziraphale looked down, astonished, and found the mud was gone too, leaving his robes clean and soft as the day they were created.[1]

That, though, was apparently not enough to satisfy Crawley, who hauled himself to his feet and stalked off into the gloom beyond the firelight. Aziraphale squinted fruitlessly after him, unable to make out more than dim shapes in the darkness. The sound of rummaging, then a brief silence followed by a satisfied hum. When Crawley came back to the fire, he had a blanket over one arm. He unfolded it with a flick of his wrists, and fairly threw it around Aziraphale’s shoulders. 

“You look terrible,” he said disapprovingly as he took his seat once more. “What did you think you were doing, schlepping up a mountain in this weather?”

Aziraphale pulled the blanket around him, avoiding Crawley’s gaze. “I was trying to get to high ground.”

“High ground?”

It had seemed obvious at the time. Now, though, Aziraphale wasn’t quite so sure. “Because of the flood,” he said weakly.

“Because of the- You knew it was coming! You knew better than anyone, why didn’t you get out of there as soon as it started raining?” Crawley was incredulous, and Aziraphale felt a stir of annoyance even through his fatigue.

“I was trying to help.”

The words seemed small now he said them. His shoulders sagged. He let his eyes drift to the white glow at the base of the fire. The wood popped and settled. The only other sound was the rain, still sheeting down outside, underpinned with the rumble of distant thunder. Crawley opened his mouth, and Aziraphale braced himself for what he was sure was coming next - a barbed word about ‘his side’, a joke at his expense, some kind of dig or another.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Crawley pulled his knees up to his chest, a self-comforting gesture that made Aziraphale want to give him some privacy. He found his eyes drifting downwards, where he saw Crawley’s bare feet poking out from beneath the hem of his robe. They looked pale and vulnerable and remarkably human in a way Aziraphale couldn’t have explained. He could see a faint dusting of red hair over their backs, and on the tops of the toes. The serpent of Eden, Satan’s representative on Earth, Aziraphale’s direct opposition in the battle for human souls - and here he was, warming his knobbly, hairy toes in front of a campfire after a difficult day. A soft, tricky feeling started to brew in Aziraphale’s chest - and a rush of panic on its heels.

“Why didn’t you dry your hair?” he blurted. Not the most subtle conversational transition, but it was best he could do.

Crawley scowled at him. “What?”

“You’ve dried your robes and everything else, but not your hair. It’s still wet.” As if to prove his point, a drop of water trickled down Crawley’s neck, catching the light as it moved.

Crawley brushed it away. “It doesn’t go right if I miracle it,” he said. “Goes all fluffy.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s eyes flicked upwards, worry twisting his mouth.

“Yours is always fluffy,” Crawley said gruffly, and Aziraphale wasn’t at all sure if he meant it as a compliment or not - or whether he wanted it to be.

Silence welled up around them once more. Possible topics of conversation rose and fell in Aziraphale’s mind, each discarded in its turn. He ran his hand over the blanket where it fell over his knees, fingers tracing the ridges of its stitches.

It was fine work, with neat, even rows of knits and purls that built into a subtle but effective pattern. He’d taken it for black at first, but now he saw there were neat, geometric shapes knitted into the border in red. He fingered the pattern, admiring the richness of the colour. He wondered, if he held the blanket to his face, if he might be able to catch the scent of peppercorn.

Then, with a strange skipping feeling in his stomach, he spotted a mistake - a red stitch out of sequence, stark against the black. His eyebrows twitched, the beginnings of a frown.

“Did you make th-” he started, but Crawley spoke at the same time, cutting him off.

“Would you like to- Sorry, what?”

The interruption threw Aziraphale off. His question felt impossible now, with hard yellow eyes burning through the dark at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said quickly. “What were you going to say?”

Crawley frowned, dissatisfied, but he didn’t press the issue. “I was going to ask if you wanted to play a game or something,” he said.

Aziraphale didn’t even try to keep the surprise out of his voice. “With you?”

Crawley looked around the empty cave, gesturing the inanity of the question. “Yes, with me,” he said. “Who else?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened and closed of its own accord. He couldn’t quite process the question. The way Crawley had been glaring at him since they’d arrived, he’d have been less surprised by an offer of a kick to the shins. To add to his confusion, Crawley was still glaring, his thick, dark brows drawn together in an expression that mixed anger, confusion, and a healthy dose of contempt.

“No,” said Aziraphale, firmly.

Crawley’s frown only deepened. “What do you mean, no?” he said.

He sounded incredulous, and to Aziraphale horror he appeared to be offended now as well as everything else. Aziraphale felt a flush rising to his cheeks.

“I don’t-” he began, feeling flustered. He pulled the blanket tighter around him, sitting up straight. “What do you want?” he said, and his confusion and tiredness made it come out harshly, more accusatory than he’d intended.

“What do I want? Oh, very nice!” Crawley spluttered, really offended now. “That’s what I get, is it, for fishing you out of the drink and bringing you back here?”

“No, I didn’t mean it like-”

“Not even so much as a thank you!” Crawley was on a roll now, his voice getting louder with every word. There was a crack of lightning outside, the boom of thunder overhead. “Don’t see why I bothered now, should have just left you to it and let you get discorporated-”

“Well, why didn’t you?” Aziraphale shouted back. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill at any moment.

Crawley stared at him. He blinked, anger giving way to confusion. “Do you want me to?” he asked. “It’s still pissing down, I can chuck you out if you’d like - even drop you off back where I found you, probably a good few feet under water by now…”

Aziraphale shook his head, sniffing and wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. He covered his face, biting back a sob. For a long time, Crawley said nothing. Slowly, something shifted in the air between them, tension slipping loose.

“Aziraphale…”

Crawley’s voice was gentle, soft with concern. Aziraphale didn’t want to look at him. He kept his face buried in his hands when he answered.

“I’m very tired,” he said, in a small voice. “I’m very tired, and my legs hurt, and I don’t- I don’t _understand_ …”

There was a pause, filled with the crackle of the fire. Then he heard Crawley sigh.

“I was just being… nice,” he said, his voice sounding strangely strangled on the last word.

Gingerly, Aziraphale lifted his head. He sniffed. “Why?”

Crawley’s mouth opened, but the answer didn’t come. He looked around as if the right words would be lying around the cave somewhere. The expression on his face was a complicated one, but by the slight pinkness in Crawley’s cheeks and ears, Aziraphale guessed at least part of it was embarrassment.  
  
The penny[2] finally dropped. It wasn’t him Crawley had been angry at, Aziraphale realised. It was himself. He was embarrassed about helping Aziraphale, and worried about him, and embarrassed all over again about being worried, and the whole mess had twisted itself around and turned itself into anger.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale softly.

Crawley frowned. “What, oh?”

That tricky feeling was happening in Aziraphale’s chest again. He bit back a smile. “If it helps,” he said, “you’re not very good at it.”

“At what?” said Crawley, completely lost.

A shy smile twitched at Aziraphale’s mouth. “Being nice,” he said.

For a moment, Crawley stared at him. Then, like the sun breaking through clouds, his own ridiculous, reckless grin spread over his face. Aziraphale was thrilled. He’d said the right thing, at last.

“Well! That’s the last time I do anything for you!” But he smiled as he said it, the dregs of his annoyance draining away.

Aziraphale wiped his cheeks dry on the edge of the blanket, laughing. “Serve me right, I expect,” he said.

“You know,” said Crawley, narrowing his eyes. “I’m not the only one who isn’t much cop at this ‘niceness’ lark.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened at that. “Me?” he said. “I’m always nice.”

“First of all, don’t believe you. Nobody’s nice all the time. Second of all, I didn’t mean being nice. I meant being niced to.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Being _niced_ to?” he repeated.

“Yeah! Letting people, you know. Make sure you’re alright.” Their eyes met, and the softness in Crawley’s expression made Aziraphale’s breath catch in his throat. “You need more practice, angel.”

Aziraphale did not know what to say to that. Thankfully, Crawley didn’t mind.

“Do you want something to eat?” he offered. “I brought a bit of food up, I know we don’t need it but who knows how long this is going to be going on for,” he said with a nod towards the cave opening. Night had fallen while they’d been inside, but the rain showed no sign of easing. “I don’t go in for it much - food, I mean - but it’s nice to have options, you know?”

Aziraphale licked his lips, worry creeping back onto his face. “I, uh. I’m not really supposed to,” he said, uncomfortably. “It’s considered somewhat… base.”

Crawley narrowed his eyes at him. “By whom?”

“Hm?”

“By whom is it considered ‘base’?”

The syllables tinkled into place. A ripple of anger underlay the words, but Aziraphale didn’t think it was directed at him. He glanced upwards, licking his lips again. He didn’t like to say it out loud. But Crawley wasn’t going to let him off so easily.

“Come on, Aziraphale. Who thinks it’s ‘base’?” he needled. “You?”

Aziraphale shot him a look. “No,” he admitted. “ _I_ don’t, but-”

“Well then, what’s the problem? Besides, it’d be rude to refuse. Hospitality and all that.”

When Aziraphale failed to answer, Crawley gave a self-satisfied ‘Hm’ that immediately made Aziraphale wish he’d had a clever, cutting response. But then, Crawley was on his feet, going over to sort through his belongings once more. When he came back he was carrying a cooking pot filled with raw vegetables, little clay pots, and a flat, wide loaf of bread. He had a pair of knives in his other hand, and a bulging water skin tucked under one elbow.

“Are you going to… cook?” said Aziraphale, mildly horrified - and rather less mildly impressed.

Crawley sat back down and handed Aziraphale a knife. “Nope,” he said. “ _We’re_ going to cook.”

Aziraphale found himself thoughtlessly accepting both the knife and the thick, green leek Crawley passed him next. “I don’t know how!”

“It’s alright,” said Crawley, unperturbed. “I’ll show you.”

With practised movements, Crawley started to twist his hair up into a bun on the top of his head. Finally, he did something complicated with a loop of hair and secured the body of the bun into place, tucking a stray strand behind his ear. He looked over to Aziraphale, who hadn’t moved.

“Look,” he said gently. “It’s been a hard day. This’ll help, I promise.”

Aziraphale was not convinced. He looked down at the leek, dubiously. “I, um…”

Crawley looked up, expectant. Then he saw the uncertainty on Aziraphale’s face, and his face softened. He found Aziraphale a wooden board to lean on, and scooted himself closer, pointing to parts of the leek as he talked.

“So what you want to do is, you see the bottom where the roots are? Just cut that off. That’s right. And then the dark bits at the top, they’re thicker than you’d like to eat - they’re good for making stock though…”

He went on, filling the cave with the sound of his voice. Aziraphale could feel the words sliding off him even as he heard them, but it didn’t matter. The sense of being so easily and so thoroughly included in the process filled him up with warmth and pride, even as he knew he was probably going to end up doing every task set to him completely wrong. That didn’t seem to matter though. He couldn’t imagine Crawley doing anything but laughing off his mistakes and making the best of them.

Crawley hung the pot over the fire and added a lump of creamy white tallow to melt in the bottom. Then Aziraphale watched as he made short work of an onion, chopping it into neat, even chunks and tipping them into the pan with a satisfying chorus of spits and hisses. The smell of frying filled the cave. Aziraphale felt a knot of anxiety pull itself loose. If he’d known cooking was as nice as this, he’d have done it years ago.

While the onion cooked, Crawley turned his attention to the beetroot. They’d fallen into comfortable silence, and for a while Aziraphale simply let himself watch, enjoying the rhythm of Crawley’s knife, the sounds and smells of cooking, the way the fire heated him through. Crawley worked methodically, peeling and dicing with quick, quiet competence. He had such clever hands, thought Aziraphale, drifting in a cosy bubble of calm.

“Sure you don’t want to play something? Pass the time?” said Crawley as he added the beetroot to the pot.

Aziraphale thought about it. It didn’t seem such a terrible idea, now that he was warmer and happier and with Crawley looking so achingly, ridiculously normal, peeling shallots in the firelight.

“I suppose we can,” he said slowly. “If you like.”

“Great,” said Crawley, flashing him a smile. “What do you fancy?”

The question took Aziraphale by surprise. “Oh. Um. I’m not sure. I’ve never actually played anything before,” he admitted.

At this, Crawley’s hands fell still. He stared at Aziraphale in frank astonishment. “You’ve never…?” He blinked, too stunned for the moment to speak. “It’s been a thousand years! You’re telling me you’ve never played a single game, not one, in a thousand years?”

“It never came up,” Aziraphale said weakly.

“It never came up?!” Crawley started chopping, gesturing with his knife as he spoke. “How can it possibly have never come up? What the devil have you been doing with your time?”

“Well, I’ve been-” Aziraphale started, but apparently the question was rhetorical.

“Mustn’t have been spending much time with the humans, that’s for sure. Turn your back on a human for five minutes and they start playing something or other.” He threw the chopped shallots into the pot and started tearing up clumps of a green, leafy something that Aziraphale thought might be rocket. “It’s chronic,” he went on, warming to his theme. “They can’t help themselves. That, and singing. At any given time, no human is ever more than five minutes’ quiet away from either breaking into song or starting a game. Or both. What do you _do_ all day?”

Aziraphale was starting to feel rather put out. “I work!” he objected. “I have work to do, miracles and visions and-”

“Yes, yes,” Crawley dismissed with a wave of his hand. “But you mustn’t be working all the time. If you were working all the time, I’d know about it. Make my life a damn sight more difficult, for one thing. I mean, what do you do in your time off? You don’t cook, you don’t play. What do you with yourself?”

Aziraphale licked his lips. Crawley’s eyes seemed very yellow suddenly, staring at him full of expectation. He tried to think of something, anything he could say that would satisfy the demon. 

“I… pray?”

Crawley stared at him. He had an expression on his face that Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to describe until the 19th century, though he’d see it often enough over the years, complicated in turns by exasperation, fondness or pity. At its heart though, the look said simply, “By _God_ , they’ve done a number on you.”

The moment passed. Crawley let out a sigh, stirring the pot with a wooden spoon, shaking his head.

“Do you spend a lot of time with them?” said Aziraphale. “Humans, I mean.”

“’Course. Nobody else to spend time with. Except you.”

Crawley started to root through his supplies again. He opened one clay pot after another, sniffing their contents.

“You could go back to Hell,” Aziraphale suggested.

Crawley shot him a look. “You could go back to Heaven.”

Aziraphale conceded the point. Then Crawley, finding the spice he was searching for, he added a healthy dash to the food. A pungent, earthy aroma started to fill the air.

“Here,” said Crawley, reaching for something new. “Try this.”

He held out a little tuft of something green. Aziraphale took it, frowning. It was a plant, a herb of some kind - flat leafed with a thin stem. He brought it to his lips and nibbled it cautiously.

“Oh!” he said, happily surprised. “Oh, that’s delicious!”

Crawley beamed at him. “Good,” he said, adding handfuls of the stuff to the pot. “It tastes bad to some people, don’t know why. Didn’t want to risk ruining your dinner,” he added, with a quick grin.

“No, it’s lovely,” Aziraphale enthused. “Lovely and fresh. And sort of… lemony? Or something? Can I have some more?”

Crawley laughed. “It’ll taste better in the stew,” he said, but he handed a little more of the herb to Aziraphale to nibble on before adding the rest to the pot.

“Is that what this is? Stew?”

Crawley laughed again. There was no malice in it, though. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever been laughed at so gently before.

“Not yet,” said Crawley, answering his question. “But it’s getting there. You should eat more,” he added. “I think you’ll enjoy it once you give it a proper go.”

Aziraphale pulled a doubtful face. “Perhaps,” he said, though he was really only being polite.

After a while, Crawley added water to the pot, letting it come up to a boil while he ground garlic in a mortar and pestle. This added, he finally nodded to the chopped leeks still sitting on the board where Aziraphale had left them.

“Those next,” he said.

Aziraphale looked at the leek as if he’d completely forgotten they were there - which, of course, he had.

“Oh!” he cried, dismayed. “Oh, I was supposed to be helping you and now look - you’ve done all the work!”

“I have,” Crawley agreed, lifting the board himself since Aziraphale was distracted. “You’ll have to make it up to me.”

He assessed Aziraphale, considering his punishment. A slow, wicked smile spread itself across his face.

“I think I’ll make you… do the washing up.”

Aziraphale’s face fell, dismay written all over him. He looked from Crawley to the rain outside and back again. “Oh… I suppose…”

Crawley barked a laugh, making him jump. “Oh, don’t look so forlorn! I’m only joking!” He leant back, lying down with his long legs kicked out at the side of the fire, propping himself up on his elbows. “Don’t worry, angel. Hell forbid I ask you to lift a finger. The look on your face,” he added, warm and teasing.

Aziraphale laughed good-naturedly. “I would, if you asked,” he insisted. “But I’m very glad you’re not asking.”

“Nah,” said Crawley. “Though you have to let me teach you a game, now. Fair’s fair.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Go on then. Something simple, though, it’s been a bugger of a day.”

“Mm, it has, at that,” Crawley agreed. He looked up at Aziraphale then, an odd look on his face. “Getting better though.”

The fire must have given out a surge of heat then, because Aziraphale suddenly felt his cheeks getting hot. He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.

“What’s the game?” he said, a little too quickly.

“Alright. An easy one - Twenty Questions. It’s a guessing game,” he explained. “We take it in turns to think of something - anything at all. And the other person has to try and guess what it is by asking questions, but they’re only allowed to ask twenty, max. It’ll make sense once we’re playing,” he added, on seeing Aziraphale’s expression. “Look, I’ll start. I’m thinking of something, now you ask to find out what it is.”

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled. “…what is it?”

“You know what? That’s on me,” said Crawley. “They have to be yes or no questions.”

“You didn’t say that bit,” Aziraphale objected.

“I know, I’m sorry! It’s alright, it doesn’t count - it’s still your go. I won’t even change what it was I was thinking of. Fair and square.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you? You’re a demon, after all. What’s to say you’re not going to say no to whatever I guess and pretend you were thinking about something else all along?”

“Because that’s no fun! There’s no fun in making it so you win all the time, where’s the satisfaction? Where’s the skill?”

Aziraphale was not quite convinced. “Do you promise?”

Crawley raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s to say I’d keep a promise? I am a demon, after all.”

Aziraphale, who had been around humans a lot less than Crawley, hadn’t quite got to grips with sarcasm yet. “That’s a good point,” he said, slightly deflated. “I suppose I’ll just have to trust you.”

“Suppose you will. Come on - try again. Remember, you can only ask twenty times.”

“Is it… fire?” Aziraphale hazarded.

“…no.”

“Hmm. Is it a pot?” he tried.

Crawley’s mouth twitched. “It’s not a pot.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Is it stew?”

“Aziraphale,” said Crawley gently, drawing his attention from where it had been roaming around the cave. “It, um. It really might be anything all. It needn’t, for example, be anything in the cave, do you see?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale frowned, and thought. Then a light came into his eyes. “Is it the cave?” he asked excitedly.

Crawley swallowed a smile. “It is not.”

It didn’t take long for Aziraphale to work through his twenty questions. When he finally ran out and Crawley admitted that he’d actually been thinking of an olive tree, Aziraphale accepted his loss with sportsmanlike dignity.

“Ah, that’s a shame,” he said. “I didn’t even get to trees. Got stuck on frogs.”

“Yes,” said Crawley. “You were very thorough on the frogs. Didn’t know there were so many.”

“Oh, that wasn’t all of them,” Aziraphale said. “Not by a long way. I just thought I’d start with the ones who live in these parts and work my way out.”

“Yes, see, here’s the thing about that,” said Crawley, taking his hair out of its knot and giving it a very distracting shake. “While I commend you on your thoroughness-”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But the thing is, you do only have twenty questions, see? So you need to sort of, funnel things a bit. Look, you try. Think of something. Anything you like.”

“…alright. I’m thinking of something.”

“Great. Now. Is it… something in the cave?”

“No,” said Aziraphale, with the firmness of one determined to do well.

Crawley squinted at him. On a little more than a hunch, he said, “Aziraphale. Is it an olive tree?”

“Yes! Oh, well done! That was very quick, bravo.”

“Yes, it was quick but it wasn’t really very difficult, you see? And that’s part of the fun. It’s fun because you have to be clever about it.” When understanding failed to dawn, Crawley decided to change tack. He sat up, the better to gesticulate. “Why don’t we try a sort of pretend round? I’ll give you something to think, and then I’ll ask about it the way I would if we were playing for real. That way, you can see what I mean about funnelling.”

“Perhaps I’m just not very good at games,” said Aziraphale, more disappointed than he’d have expected.

“No,” said Crawley quickly. “You’re not very good at _this_ game, but that’s just because you’ve never played it before. I’m sure once you get your head round it, you’ll be a regular champion.”

A soft, warm feeling started to happen in Aziraphale stomach. “Oh,” he said. “Thank you.”

Crawley, who was stirring the stew, waved the thanks away. “Let’s just give it a go like I said,” he said, sitting back. “So, pretend it’s my go to guess. And you’re thinking of, um… A unicorn, let’s say.” Aziraphale nodded obediently. For the hundredth time that night, Crawley had to fight not to smile. “Right, so, if I were starting to ask you, my first question would be something really broad like, is it real?”

Aziraphale eyebrows shot up. “You can think of something that isn’t real?” he said. Crawley shrugged. “I didn’t know that. Well, yes, what I’m thinking of is a real thing.”

“Good. And, is it a living thing?”

“Statistically speaking, no. That was a joke,” he added, when Crawley simply stared at him.

“No, I know. It was very funny,” said Crawley, completely deadpan.

“You’re not laughing."

“You took me by surprise. I didn’t know you could make jokes.”

Aziraphale smiled, his cheeks distinctly warm now. “I suppose I’m learning.”

He could feel the warmth spilling from his face down his neck and over his chest. Crawley had that odd look on his face again - something warm and fond and slightly astonished, and it stirred up all sorts of complicated things in Aziraphale that he simply did not have enough experience to understand.

“Yes,” said Crawley. “I suppose you are.”[3]

Once Crawley had “guessed” that Aziraphale was thinking of a unicorn, Aziraphale had a much better sense of the game. By the time the stew had finished thickening, he was proving a dab hand.[4]

“How can something be ‘not really’ alive?” Crawley said, spooning stew into a wooden bowl and haphazardly scattering some more of the leafy green herbs on top as a garnish. He handed the bowl to Aziraphale and started to serve himself.

“That’s not yes or no question,” said Aziraphale primly.

“‘Not really’ isn’t a yes or no answer,” Crawley pointed out, taking his seat and passing Aziraphale a spoon. “I think I deserve a bit of clarification. Bread?”

“Thank you. I don’t see what ‘deserve’ has to do with it. I think I’ve been quite fair. If you want to forfeit…”

Crawley crowed with laughter. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you! If I’d known you were this competitive, I’d never have suggested it.”

“Don’t feel bad,” said Aziraphale, stirring his stew with a grin. “I didn’t know I was competitive either.”

He took the piece of bread Crawley tore off for him and rested it on the edge of his bowl. Then, aware of Crawley’s eyes on him, he took his first, cautious mouthful.

He chewed. Swallowed. Licked his lips.

“Oh…”

It was the smallest sigh of a syllable, and almost more than he could manage. He ate some more, chewing carefully to let the flavours melt on his tongue. The food was hot and filling, the perfect, steadying weight to lean against after a day full of wet, cold misery. He felt it’s comforting warmth sinking into him, the earthy beetroot beautifully counterweighted by the freshness of the herbs.

“Try the bread,” said Crawley, his voice pulling Aziraphale out of his reverie. When he looked, he saw that Crawley was staring at him with something softer than hunger.

“Like this?”

Aziraphale dipped the bread into the stew, letting it soak up some of the juices. Crawley nodded, unblinking. It was, impossible, even more delicious like that - the bread gave a nutty undertone to the stew, and the texture of the dense crumb falling apart against his tongue made Aziraphale’s eyes flicker closed with simple happiness.

“Good, then?” said Crawley, and even with his eyes shut, Aziraphale could hear the smile in it.

“Mmm,” he sighed. “Very.”

Game forgotten, they ate in companionable quiet, broken only by the small sounds of pleasure that Aziraphale seemed unable to stop himself from making. Crawley didn’t seem to mind. When Aziraphale finished his first bowl, Crawley was quick to offer a second, and seemed to take quite as much pleasure in watching Aziraphale enjoy himself as he did in eating his own portion.

Eventually, Aziraphale set his bowl down with a final, satisfied sigh. He was full and warm and content in a way he didn’t think he ever had been before. It seemed impossible that just a few hours ago he’d been slogging up a mountain in the downpour, so wet and miserable he could hardly think straight.

Beside him, Crawley leaned back on his elbows once more, stifling a yawn. “What do you say to another round before bed?”

“Bed? Oh, I don’t sleep.”

Crawley snorted, bringing his arms up behind his head as a makeshift pillow. “Should have known,” he said. “Well, I do. Nothing like it after a big meal.”

Aziraphale accepted this mildly. He had, he felt, done quite enough new things for one evening. Best to quit while he was ahead.

Crawley closed his eyes, wriggling to get himself comfortable. Aziraphale couldn’t help watching him, the easy rise and fall of his stomach as he breathed. He looked so at peace, stretched out like a cat in sunshine, as if it were the easiest thing in the world to doze in front of the fire while his erstwhile enemy kept watch. As if it didn’t even occur to him not to trust Aziraphale.

“I’ll leave in the morning,” Aziraphale said, stating the intention out loud to make it true. Crawley shrugged, perhaps sensing that the statement was not really aimed at him. “Would you like your blanket?” Aziraphale offered, but Crawley shook his head.

“Nah, I’m alright,” he said, and clicked his fingers.

A black, woollen blanket appeared out of the ether and draped itself over his long, outstretched lines. Pillows had appeared beneath Crawley’s head, and he punched them into shape, getting comfortable. Aziraphale breathed in the soft, peppery scent, and tried not to think too much.

“Whose go is it to guess?” said Crawley without opening his eyes. Already, sleep was blurring the edges of his speech.

“Yours. I’ve got something.”

“’s it alive?”

“No.”

“Isss it… nev’r alive?”

Aziraphale looked down at Crawley’s face, slack mouthed, his cheek smooshed against the pillow. He had fine lines around his eyes and mouth, as if he’d spent the better part of the last millennium laughing. He probably had, thought Aziraphale. Laughing, playing, getting into trouble.

“No,” he said softly. “It was never alive.”

Crawley grunted. For a long time, Aziraphale sat, listening to Crawley’s breathing and pretending not to. His eyes fell on the pile of dirty dishes beside the fire, and without thinking he clicked his fingers, cleaning them with a rush of angelic power. Aziraphale had assumed Crawley was fast asleep already, but to his surprise the demon shifted slightly where he lay, making a soft, grumpy noise.

“’s bread?” he mumbled, eyebrows twitching in a frown.

“Bread? No, it isn’t bread.”

“Ngh. Sssmells like bread.”

Aziraphale didn’t reply. The fire crackled merrily, sending the odd, jubilant shower of sparks into the air with a pop. Even the rain seemed finally to be easing off. Crawley began to snore.

In a few hours, the sun would rise and he would set out to check on Noah and the others aboard the Ark. He and Crawley might not see each other again for years - centuries, even, or perhaps another millennium. He did not look too closely at the disappointment he felt at the thought.

He did not look to closely at anything he was feeling, for the rest of the night. He was happy, and knew that if he thought too long about where he was - and why, and with whom - the bubble would burst and he would tumble back into anxiousness. Instead, he sat perfectly still, letting the feeling wash over him. Let morning come in its own time. For now, there was this - the sound of snoring, the smell of the campfire, and budding, blooming joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 While it may be true that cleanliness is next to godliness, the invention of laundry detergent and fabric softener has complicated the issue somewhat. That being said, if word got out about the cosmic levels of fluff achieved by a truly angelic dry clean, the marketing team at Lenor would have a lot more to worry about than those pesky Millennials.
> 
> 2 Or, more properly, the shekel.
> 
> 3 Unlike Aziraphale, Crawley had a fairly good idea what was going on here, at least on his end. Not that the knowledge helped, of course, any more than a degree in oceanography can save a man from drowning.
> 
> 4 Aziraphale couldn’t have picked a better year to learn the game if he’d tried, simply because so few things had been invented yet, making the pool of potential subjects fairly small. Fortunately, by the time things like String Theory and Hula Hoops came into play, Aziraphale had gained an expert knowledge of the inner workings of one Anthony J. Crowley, and could usually outfox him in 12 questions or less.


	2. 1757 BCE - Knucklebones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is on babysitting duty - and not, it must be said, doing his best work. Thank Someone, then, for the sudden and fortuitous appearance of a second pair of hands to help out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i will write a story about them playing games  
> also me: writes literally thousands of words of them goofing about before getting to the actual game bit
> 
> i had a LOT of fun writing and researching this - minoans were DOPE! this chapter features the court complex at knossos, which ive chosen _not_ to call a palace because i delved too greedily and too deep when i did my research and came across Academic Discourse about the connotations of 'palace' and the lack of evidence for that kind of social structure in minoan society. ....and then i made up a bunch of guff to use as dress-setting anyway, but look, i do not control the rate at which i willfully ignore historical evidence.
> 
> the cup that pura uses was based on baby bottles found in germany dating to the neolithic era and they are just sooo cuuute! but yes, hard to clean and children pura's age would normally still be breastfeeding but his babysitter has no titties so wygd ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> cws for this chapter are very light - a brief moment where a child is almost injured (but isn't), and some baby sick.
> 
> if u wld like me to infodump to you about all the new knowledge i have about minoans, or just want to say hello, you can [find me on tumblr!](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/)
> 
> and finally, this is unbeta'd so if you spot any typos or formatting errors, please let me know. otherwise, enjoy!

The sprawling court complex at Knossos was truly a sight to behold. Covering over 20,000 square metres in a series of twisting terraces and colonnades, it would go down in history as one of the earliest examples of the heights to which humanity could reach in the name of art and architecture. Its walls, ceilings, even its floors were decorated with murals and mosaics depicting Minoans from all walks of life going about their business.

Or at least, most of their business. Crawley was pretty sure none of the murals inside the complex showed anyone holding a screaming baby while trying to talk a six-year-old down from what promised to be a truly unholy meltdown.

“But I _want_ to!”

“Yes, darling, I know, but you’re too little-”

“I’m not little! I’m six!”

Crawley would have laughed at that ten minutes ago. Now, though, he was rapidly approaching the end of his tether. The eastern pavilion of the complex was quieter than the central courtyard, but it still teemed with people. Most of them had been studiously ignoring the girl’s tantrum, but now they were starting to shoot Crawley disapproving looks. He switched the girl’s baby brother to his other arm, jiggling frantically in a bid to try and calm his crying, and took hold of the girl’s hand with his free one.

“I know it doesn’t feel fair, Kitten-”

“My name’s not Kitten!” the girl shrieked, stomping her bare foot with a rather underwhelming pat.

She pulled against Crawley’s hand, but he held her fast and dropped down to kneel in front of her, blocking her view of the teenage boys who had initiated this outburst by committing the mortal sin of not anticipating the inclusion of a strange six-year-old when planning their afternoon activities. The thwack of their practice swords mingled with the sounds of the pavilion as they set about trying to knock seven bells out of each other. It was an activity that was altogether irresistible to a bloodthirsty little girl.[1]

Crawley reached for the last shreds of his patience. He pitched his voice loud enough to be heard over the baby’s crying and fought to maintain an air of firm, competent calm.

“You can’t play with them, Kitane, they’re too big for you. They’re being too rough and you might get hurt.”

Kitane’s face, blotchy and smeared in snot and tears, crumpled into a howl. “But I _want_ too-o-o!”

The sound only set her brother off screaming even harder. Crawley opened his mouth to say something in a brief moment of quiet when the baby paused for breath - and was cut off by the sudden, horribly warm smack of something distinctly organic hitting him in the side of the neck.

“Oh, for Hell’s sake!”

Milky vomit ran down his neck and over his bare chest. In the split second of his distraction, Kitane pulled her hand free and charged off in the direction of the boys. Crawley twisted where he knelt, grabbing after her, but she was too quick.

He looked up, and his heart seized with horror at what he saw. Time had gone syrupy slow, as it does when something awful is about to happen. With cold, dreadful clarity, Crawley saw one of the boys’ heavy wooden swords arc upwards, dark against the Cretan sun. It came down hard in the space where his sparring partner had been just moments before. The other boy had twisted away in the last moment, leaving what would have been empty air - if Kitane hadn’t, at that moment, rushed to put herself in the middle of the action.

Crawley stared, helpless, frozen in place. Kitane was too frightened to move. Her face was pale with fear as she stared up at the sword that thundered down towards her. She screamed, and the sound pierced through the fuzz of Crawley’s terror and straight to his heart.

A splintering crack! The blade snapped in mid-air, the bottom part flinging itself away from the little girl in a way that contravened all laws of momentum. The would-be swordsman stared dumbly at the broken hilt in his hand. Crawley blinked. Had he…? But, no, he’d been frozen, the same as Kitane - too horrified to think, let alone perform a miracle.

“I expect she’ll need a hug,” came a familiar voice behind him.

Crawley span round, astonished. But he didn’t have time to ask questions. He bundled the baby into Aziraphale’s arms and raced over to Kitane, reaching her just as she started to cry.

“Crawle-e-ey!”

“I’m here, Kitten!”

He scooped her into a fierce, desperate hug, his big hand on the back of her head, holding her close. She buried her face his neck, sobbing with belated shock. Crawley’s head was spinning. He needed to breathe, he reminded himself. In, and out. She was safe. Scared and shaken, but safe.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed, lifting her up for a proper cuddle. “I’ve got you. You’re alright now. It’s alright.”

The boy holding the broken sword looked sheepish. “I’m really sorry,” he said, his voice creaky with the first throes of puberty.

Crawley bit back the desire to break the sword into even smaller pieces over the boy’s head. “It’s fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “No harm done. Thank… Someone.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of Kitane’s perfect, curly, beautifully intact head. She was crying in earnest now, the shock of her near miss overwhelming her. Crawley could sympathise - his heart was doing a fair impression of a set of drums falling down the stairs. Relief and ebbing adrenaline mingled, making him at once giddy, and slightly sick. He closed his eyes and bounced Kitane gently in his arms, just as he had with her brother, grounding himself with the solid weight of her against him.

Eventually, Kitane reached the wet, snuffly stage of tears. Crawley looked down at her as best he could, making a quick, expert assessment. Still shaken, he decided, but she’d bounce back. Still - a bit of a cuddle certainly wouldn’t hurt. He brushed her hair away from her forehead and kissed her again.

“Crawley?” she said after a moment.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

She sat up to look at him, frowning as sombrely as someone can with a runny nose. “You’ve got sick on you.”

Yep. She’d be fine. “Well, so have you, now. Come on, let’s go and see your brother.”

Aziraphale was waiting where Crawley had left him, tickling Kitane’s brother under his pudgy chin. The baby giggled and kicked his legs, looking not at all like he had just spent the last quarter of an hour shrieking himself purple. As they drew close, Aziraphale looked up, and the sight of him struck Crawley like a blow to the chest. It took a force of will to keep himself from tearing up with relief and gratitude.

“Hi,” he managed.

Aziraphale smiled, warm and kind, like the rest of him. “Hello,” he said. “Difficult day?”

Crawley let out a breathy laugh. “Difficult ten minutes,” he admitted. Then, in a rush before Aziraphale could cut in with more unbearable gentleness, “Listen, I’ve got to get her cleaned up - both of us, actually, since _someone_ couldn’t keep his breakfast to himself. You couldn’t keep an eye on him a bit longer, could you?”

Aziraphale seemed surprised, but it was gone in a moment. “Of course,” he said, easily. “I’d be happy to. Though, why not just…”

He wiggled his fingers vaguely. Crawley pulled a face. Kitane had gone shy, hiding her face in Crawley’s hair, and he spoke over her head, dropping his voice as if to spare her feelings.

“I, uh… I think she might need a bit of quiet,” he explained. He didn’t feel the need to mention that he shared the sentiment.

Aziraphale pulled an understanding face. “Of course,” he said. “We’ll be here when you get back. We’ll get on quite nicely, won’t we, little one?” This last he addressed to the baby, who conveyed his approval of the proposal through the medium of spit bubble.

“Here,” said Crawley, slipping off the satchel he had slung over his shoulder and handing it over. “It’s got some toys and things in, if you need them. His name’s Pura,” he added, swallowing against an unbearably soppy feeling building in his gut.

“Pura!” Aziraphale repeated, delighted. He slipped the bag onto his own shoulder and beamed at the child. “Well, then, Pura, what do you say you and I get to know each other a little better? Tell me, what are your thoughts on this business in Mari? I have to say, I think Hammurabi’s being somewhat over-zealous…”

Crawley beat a hasty retreat, before the soppy feeling could make its way onto his face. He carried Kitane up the steps at the eastern entrance, silently subjecting himself to a stern lecture on the subject of Grips and The Importance of Getting Them.

He was being ridiculous. He didn’t even _know_ Aziraphale, not really - their paths had crossed a handful of times since the Ark, but that night in the cave remained by far the most time they’d ever spent in each other’s company. He had a better relationship with his loincloth, for Someone’s sake.

 _Left Pura with him though, didn’t you?_ asked a treacherous voice in the back of his head. _Didn’t even hesitate. Not something you’d do with a total stranger…_

 _He’s an angel,_ Crawley thought back. _He’s hardly going to punt him off the steps of the pavilion, is he?_

The voice didn’t answer, but Crawley could feel the smug expression it was wearing.

Stepping into the eastern hall was a breath of cool, distracting relief. The hall was large and shady, white walls decorated with bright, geometric patterns that had Kitane craning her neck to follow them as they passed.

On a festival day, the space would have been packed with priests and acolytes, the head priestess taking her seat on the throne at the far end of the room to oversee the rituals that gave rhythm to life on the island. Today, though, people milled about in small pockets, presumably visiting the courts on administrative business. It wasn’t quiet, exactly, but the atmosphere was one of comfortable people getting on with their lives.

Crawley spotted an entry way on the north side of the hall and adjusted his course, jigging Kitane to sit a little higher on his hip.

“Do you remember what I told you about going somewhere you shouldn’t?” he said in a low voice.

Kitane answered promptly. “Act like you belong, and don’t tell them anything you aren’t directly asked.”

“Atta girl.”

They reached the entry way, and were just about to pass through it when a voice rang out from behind them.

“Excuse me! Excuse me, sir!”

Crawley and Kitane shared a conspiratorial look. Then, Crawley turned to face the guard rushing towards them. She was young, barely out of her teens and looking younger in her ill-fitting uniform. When she reached Crawley and Kitane, she smiled at them, all apologies.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t go back there. That area is off-limits to the general public.”

Crawley raised an eyebrow at her. “The… general public?” he repeated, infusing his voice with disdain.

The guard’s certainty draining away. Crawley almost felt bad - this was too easy. “I mean no offence-” she began.

“I’m sure you don’t,” said Crawley, in a tone that strongly suggested she’d better stop talking if she wanted to finish the conversation still in possession of her job. Or all her fingers.

He pulled himself up to his full height, mustering all the demonic dignity he had at his disposal. The effect was marred slightly by the now somewhat crusty spray of baby sick drying into his chest hair. However, what it lost by this addition, it more than regained through Kitane’s enthusiastic contribution of a glare that could scare the colour out of paint.[2]

The guard never stood a chance. She crumpled, her face falling in a twist of mortified apology. “I’m s-so sorry, sir,” she stammered.

Crawley waved the apology away with an imperious gesture. “Bring water to the washroom,” he said, turning on his heel to leave. “Two ewers, hot and cold.”

“Of course, sir,” said the guard, her head bobbing in a reflexive bow before she fairly sprinted off to do as she was told.

The corridor led to a small receiving room lined with low stone benches. It was quieter here, away from the bustle of the main hall, and light streamed in through a light well on the eastern side, giving the place a sense of bright, brilliant calm. Crawley felt the tension in his shoulders start to ease, just a little.

Nobody stopped them as they passed through. One attendant looked at them quizzically, but seemed to decide that whatever the pair were up to, it was above their pay-grade, and let them pass without comment. Intricate paintings of dolphins and beautiful blue and red fish danced over the walls, counterweighted with abstract patterns on the floor and ceiling. As they walked under yet another archway, Kitane sighed, wistfully.

“Can I have dolphins on my wall at home?”

“Ask your grandmother,” Crawley evaded, with the expertise of child-carers the world over.

They came at last to a washroom, as finely decorated as any room in the complex and clearly intended for the use of the crème de la crème of Knossosian society - an upper echelon which, in Crawley’s opinion, wholeheartedly included Kitane and her brother. He deposited her onto the low wall of a balustrade that sectioned the space off from the rest of the corridor.

“You know,” he said, stretching his back, “you’re getting a bit too big to be carried around like that.”

Kitane pouted. “You should do some exercise,” she said. “Get stronger.”

Crawley laughed, incredulous. “Oh, should I? Perhaps I could take up bull-leaping - what do you think? Would that help my poor noodle arms? Why are you laughing?” he said, wiggling his arms at her. “Are you making fun of me? Kitane, you shouldn’t make fun of people for having noodle arms, it’s a very serious condition - stop laughing!”

Kitane cackled, head thrown back and legs kicking. At that moment, the young guard came round the corner, a ewer of water in each hand and a bundle of cloths under her arm. Immediately, Crawley adopted a pose of regal superiority. The guard, who had definitely witnessed some distinctly undignified wiggling through the balustrade, raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. She walked round into the washroom proper and set the ewers and the cloths down to one side of where Kitane was sitting. Crawley gave her a sombre nod of thanks.

“Thank you, that’ll be all,” he said, po-faced.

“Of course, sir,” said the guard, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. She bobbed her head and left.

Kitane watched her go, leaning against one of the pillars on the balustrade as Crawley mixed hot and cold water in a basin.

“It’s your legs that are the problem, really,” she said thoughtfully.

“Huh? What’s wrong with my legs?”

“For the bull-leaping. They’re too long, they’d get all in the way.”

Crawley snorted. “Thanks,” he said. “There go my plans for a new career.”

He wet a cloth and sponged at the baby sick on his neck and chest. That was one thing to be preferred about fashion in this part of the world - it was easier to keep clean without the swathes of fabric they preferred in Mesopotamia.

“Is that man outside your friend? You’ve got some in your hair,” she added.

“Oh, yuck. Where?”

She pointed. He had his hair half up in a top-knot, leaving the rest to curl long and loose around his shoulders. Sure enough, some of the loose hair had trailed through the mess, unbeknownst to Crawley. He poured a little water over the crusted knot, wrinkling his nose with distaste, and considered Kitane's question.

“We're... sort of friends, I guess,” he said, not wanting to lie to her but not sure what the truth was. “His name’s Aziraphale. Yeah, I know,” he laughed on seeing her face. “Bit of a mouthful.”

He sounded the syllables out for her slowly, and she repeated them back, rolling the foreign name around her mouth, getting its flavour.

“What’s it mean?” she asked.

Crawley shrugged. “No idea. Something to do with God, I expect. Did I get it all?” She looked him over, and finally nodded. “Terrific. Your turn.”

Kitane stood, letting Crawley look her up and down, washcloth at the ready. She was at least five years away from wearing the tiered skirts and short, open-fronted jackets worn by adult women, and wore instead a simple, knotted loincloth. Mercifully, she’d escaped too much of the second-hand mess, but there were still daubs of it on her chest and shoulder from where they’d hugged. Crawley knelt down in front of her to clean her up.

“I’m sorry I ran off,” she said as Crawley wiped off a smear of sick from her shoulder.

“Thank you for apologising,” he said, sincerely.

“It was really scary, when I thought it was going to hit me.”

Crawley sat back on his haunches and looked at her. “Yeah. I was scared too,” he admitted.

“Do you think it would have killed me?”

Crawley saw the glint in her eye and smiled. “Maybe,” he said, tossing the washcloth into the basin. “Either way, it would have been a horrible mess.”

“Blood and brains all over,” Kitane agreed enthusiastically. “Probably bits of skull and teeth and things.”

“You are a very grisly little girl.” He kissed her forehead and stood, holding out a hand for her to take as he led her back out. When they reached the main entrance hall again, he said, “Did you mean what you said, earlier? About not wanting me to call you Kitten? I’ll stop, if you like.”

She shook her head quickly. “No, I like it. I was just upset.”

He squeezed her hand and smiled, more relieved than he’d like to admit. “Alright then. Little Kitten.”

She grinned up at him, more gap than teeth, and this time he let the soppy, heart-full feeling wash over him entirely.

Back on the pavilion, Crawley scanned the crowds before spotting Aziraphale sitting out of the way on a low, whitewashed wall. He and Pura were deep in conversation. As they approached, Pura threw out one fat arm, pointing vehemently.

“A dog!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “What a nice dog. What do dogs say? They say woof, woof, woof. Woof, woof, woof!” he repeated, kissing Pura’s little fist between the words and making the boy gurgle and giggle like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard.

“I see your conversation has disintegrated somewhat,” said Crawley. Aziraphale beamed at him.

“Not at all! The key to a good conversation is variety, after all. Hello,” he added, speaking to Kitane. “My name’s Aziraphale.”

As Crawley had expected, with time and space to recover from her shock, Kitane’s shyness had all but vanished. She smiled back. “I know,” she said. “Crawley told me. He said you’re sort of friends?”

Crawley didn’t see Aziraphale’s reaction to this statement, as his attention had just then, and quite coincidentally, been caught by a particularly interesting bit of stonework on the wall just behind Aziraphale’s left calf.

“That’s right,” came Aziraphale’s voice. “What’s your name?”

“Kitane. Crawley calls me Kitten, but he’s the only one who does.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale assured her. “I’ll just call you Kitane. It’s a lovely name,” he added.

“Thank you! Yours is a bit weird.”

That got Crawley’s attention. “Don’t be rude,” he admonished.

Kitane pulled a face. “I wasn’t! It _is_ weird!”

“But you don’t _say_ that! You say something like, oh, what an unusual name, I wonder where it comes from, or something.”

“Oh. What an unusual name. I wonder where it comes from.”

Crawley tried to look disapproving, he really did. But he was just so proud of her.

“That is… an awful lot of sarcasm for someone so small,” he finished weakly. She grinned at him, knowing the compliment for what it was. Crawley gave up. “Why don’t you find somewhere nice for us to sit and we’ll have something to eat? Stay where I can see you!” he called, as Kitane took off on her mission at a run.

He watched her go, skidding down the steps of the pavilion to the paved garden below. Then, belatedly, he remembered Aziraphale standing, polite and patient, beside him. He turned to say something, but stopped, distracted. Aziraphale’s eyes caught the sun, fairly glittering in the bright light. They looked blue, here, the shining blue of the Mediterranean, and Crawley thought dimly of cool waves, salt on lips, the slow fall of a body through water.

“Hi,” he managed.

“Hello,” Aziraphale smiled.

Finally, Crawley got a hold of himself. He dropped his gaze, clearing his throat. “I, uh. Sorry. Bit of a… weird moment. Still a bit, you know.” He waved his hand, letting Aziraphale finish the sentence however he liked. A horrible thought came to him. “Shit, I should- Sorry, I’ve kept you so long, you probably have things to do-”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale said quickly. “That is, I was here for business, but I’m done now.” Crawley could have sworn there was a hopeful note in his voice as he said it.

“Oh. Well. If you’ve got nothing to rush to…”

“I don’t. Nothing at all.”

They smiled at each other with absurd, shy delight. Part of Crawley wanted to smack himself, bring him to his senses. The rest of him was altogether too happy to listen.

They set off an at easy, ambling pace down the stone steps, Crawley keeping an eye on the little figure of Kitane running about in the garden below.

“Here on business, then?” he said.

“Mm, nothing exciting - just giving a city official a small push in the right direction. You know the sort of thing.” Crawley did - dull work, but not a bad way to spend a morning. “How about you? Is is this business?”

Aziraphale nodded to Pura, happily chewing his knuckles as he watched the world go by. Crawley hadn’t forgotten him, exactly, but he looked so natural in Aziraphale’s arms that he hadn’t really registered his presence.

“Here, do want me to take him?” He reached out for the boy, but Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, I don’t mind! We’re getting on famously, aren’t we? You can take the bag, if you like.”

Glad to be helpful, Crawley took the bag from where Aziraphale was shrugging it free and swung it onto his own shoulder. They’d reached the bottom of the stairs now, and he took a moment to check to see where Kitane was.

“I haven’t seen you with kids much,” he said, spotting Kitten balancing on a wall around a raised flowerbed.

Trees cast dappled shade over the garden, and it was a small pleasure to have a break from the sun’s glare, though it did little to help the heat. Aziraphale made a thoughtful noise.

“No,” he said, “I suppose not. But you can hardly live with humans and not spend any time at all with the smaller sort.”

It was a sweet turn of phrase, and full of such affection that Crawley couldn’t help but feel more fond of Aziraphale for hearing it. It was like finding out someone liked the same art as you, or enjoyed the same music. A small validation - ‘in this, we are the same.’

“I do like them best when they’re about this size,” Aziraphale went on, giving Pura a cheerful bounce. “They’re like little fat dumplings you can carry around with you. Put food in one end, deal with what comes out - nice and easy.”

Crawley snorted. “Depends on what’s coming out, and where - not to mention velocity.”

To his surprise, Aziraphale burst out laughing at that. The reaction sent blood rushing to Crawley’s head. He could do that? He could make Aziraphale laugh like that - loud and bright, completely unselfconscious? If he’d known he was able to elicit _that_ sort of reaction, he’d have tried harder, sooner.

“You’re in very good mood,” he said, not quite meaning to.

Aziraphale’s smile only widened. “Yes, I suppose I am,” he agreed. “It’s such a lovely day, and such a beautiful place. And I hadn’t at all expected to see a familiar face! You know what it’s like, when you arrive somewhere new and you don’t know anyone or what the customs are and- I don’t even know if I’m dressed properly!”

He looked down at himself, dissatisfaction crinkling his brow. He wore the same kind of short kilt as Crawley himself, though Aziraphale’s was pale and unadorned, more like an Egyptian shendyt than the bright, bejewelled thing Crawley had on. Otherwise, he was naked, save for a pair of sandals, his usual gold pinkie ring, and a single gold arm-band pressing delightfully into the swell of his right bicep.

Crawley gave him a quick once over. “You look fine. Great,” he said, more honestly. “I mean, you look foreign,” he admitted, “but like a well-dressed, polite sort of foreigner, you know?”

Relief broke over Aziraphale. “Oh, do you think? I _am_ glad. I know I probably should have gone more out there with the jewellery but it’s just not me. You look wonderful,” he added, pinking slightly, as if giddy with the recklessness of his words. “I like the little topknot thing.”

“Crawley!” came Kitane’s high, piping voice. “Look!”

Crawley, who had been staring at the pink in Aziraphale’s cheeks, turned to look, glad of the distraction.[3] Kitane was dangling upside down from the lower branches of a plane tree that grew at the centre of the garden, giggling at her own cleverness.

“Very nice,” Crawley called back, letting the moment between him and Aziraphale pass. He adjusted his course to come and meet her. “Is this where we’ll have our picnic, then?”

“I’m not hungry. Can I play for a bit instead?”

Crawley shrugged. “Sure. Just-”

“Stay where you can see me, I know!”

The gardens were paved in the same pale stone that made up the walls of the court complex, with raised beds forcing the paths into twisting, looping patterns. The smell of flowers hung warm and perfect on the air, and the hum of bees and other people’s conversations added to the cheerful, easy atmosphere.

Crawley and Aziraphale took their seats at the base of the plane tree, with Pura sat beside them like a weighty little beanbag. With easy grace, Kitane dropped to the ground and took off again, scaring an unsuspecting flock of birds and making them take off with a squawking clatter.

“Kitten! Leave them be!”

Kitane groaned, but went off to find something to play that didn’t involve frightening the avian population of the garden half to death.

“I would have thought you’d encourage that sort of thing.”

Crawley was rooting in the bag. He pulled out a clay jug in the shape of a bull, with a horns at one end, four fat legs, a round stomach, and a spout coming out of its arse.

“What, scaring birds? Hardly the depths of evil, is it, angel?”

A surreptitious click of his fingers rendered the jug sterile.[4] Then he took a flask sealed with a clay stopper, popped it open, and poured a little milk into the jug before setting it down in front of Pura and sealing the flask up again.

“Besides,” he went on, “she has to learn how to be good first, doesn’t she? Otherwise it doesn’t count. Seem to remember a whole to-do about them knowing the difference.”

Aziraphale hummed thoughtfully. Pura, oblivious to the moral philosophising happening quite literally over his head, picked up the jug with two expert fists and began to suck happily on the spout. A plate appeared from the bag, and another, and a scattering of toys, and before long Pura was sat in a veritable paradise of interesting things to pick up and put in his mouth, some of them even edible.

“Help yourself,” said Crawley, gesturing to the second plate of snacks, laid carefully outside Pura’s splatter zone.

“You didn’t answer, earlier,” said Aziraphale, reaching for some grapes. “About whether you’re here on business?”

“Oh. Um. Sort of. Business-adjacent, I suppose? Look, it’s a bit complicated…”

“It’s alright,” said Aziraphale, encouragingly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Crawley was surprised. He hadn’t really expected Aziraphale to be interested. “Right. Well. So, their mum is a saffron merchant…”

“Really? Gosh, is that usual for a woman here?”

Crawley laughed. “Not really! But she’s not the type of woman to let ‘usual for a woman’ get in her way, you know?”

Aziraphale smiled, understanding perfectly. “I see. So she’s away, I take it?”

“Yeah, off in, uh… Oh, I don’t know. Somewhere they buy saffron, I suppose. Anyway, these two stay with their granny when Mum’s away - Dad died before this one was born.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

He was, Crawley realised. Trust Aziraphale to manage to be genuinely sorry for the death of someone he hadn’t known had existed two sentences ago.

“You’re the only one who is,” Crawley went on. “He was a bastard, by all accounts. One of those blokes who loves the idea of a feisty young wife who does as she pleases, right up until what she pleases doesn’t match what _he_ pleases.” He dropped his voice, though Kitane was making a flower crown some way off. “He wasn’t all too nice to Kitten, either, as I hear it. Nothing outright cruel but… He wasn’t kind to her.”

He didn’t try and hide the anger he felt towards the man. It didn’t matter that they’d never met, that he hadn’t arrived in Knossos until well after the man’s death. He hated him, with the same fierce simplicity with which he loved Kitane and Pura.

“In that case, I take it back,” said Aziraphale. “Good riddance.”

Crawley huffed a laugh. “Anyway, Granny looks after them most of the time, but she’s also pretty involved in the local government here - used to be a priestess, I think, and has still has a fair bit of clout. She was supposed to meet with some court official today, only she couldn’t find someone to watch the kids.”

Understanding dawned on Aziraphale’s face. “Ah. And that’s where you come in.”

“I mean, I’ve looked after them plenty before,” Crawley explained. “I helped out a bit when Pura was being born - you were a bit of a tricky one, weren’t you, wee man? Nothing drastic, just…” He waved it away. Difficult births were nothing unusual in this time and place - Aziraphale could fill in the blanks. “And then I’d take Kitten for an afternoon or a day here and there while her mother was lying in, give Granny a break.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That’s an awful lot of work, for one meeting,” he pointed out.

Crawley shrugged, chewing round an olive stone. He worked it to the front of his mouth and plucked it from his lips, lying it on the side of the plate. “Not all for one meeting,” he said, knowing Aziraphale would see the evasion for what it was and hoping he wouldn’t insist on a proper answer.

“You’re very good with them,” said Aziraphale after a moment. “The children, I mean.”

At that, Crawley frankly stared. “Angel, when you got here, one of them was about to get her head caved in!”

Aziraphale laughed. “Yes, but apart from that! And getting covered in sick, I suppose. But otherwise, you’ve been very good!”

Crawley shot him a look. Then, his cheeks warming at the thought, he added, “Thanks, by the way. For earlier. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there…”

“You would have been fine.” Aziraphale’s voice was firm but kind, but Crawley pulled a face, miserable at memory of his failure.

“I didn’t do anything! I couldn’t even move, I just froze up - if you hadn’t been there-”

“Crawley,” Aziraphale interrupted, in a no-nonsense voice, “if I hadn’t been there, the worst that would have happened is that Kitane would have got a nasty bump on the head and you would have taken extremely good care of her. It all would have worked out perfectly well. Now eat some bread and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

Crawley was sure he’d have found a really good, witty response to that, if he’d had just a minute longer to think about it. But then Kitane rejoined the group, plonking down between Pura and Crawley and helping herself to a fistful of raisins. The nonchalance of her arrival lulled Crawley into a false sense of security. It wasn’t until he took a second look that he realised she was, improbably and absolutely, dripping wet.

His mouth opened and closed a few times without any sound coming out. Kitane continued eating, quite unconcerned. Finally, Crawley reached over and picked something out of her hair.

“Is this… pond weed?”

Kitane shrugged, stealing a swig of Pura’s milk. “I kept where you could see me,” she said. “Not my fault if you weren’t looking.”

Crawley sought some kind of support from Aziraphale, but the angel only nodded reasonably. “She makes a good point.”

Crawley sighed, feeling distinctly ganged up on and enjoying it immensely.

In years to come, Crawley would look back on that lunchtime as a kind of watershed moment. He’d enjoyed the time he spent with Aziraphale before, but those few hours sitting under the plane tree offered him the first glimpse of what a real friendship with Aziraphale might look like. It looked like a rambling conversation, and a plate of shared food, and the sun in Aziraphale’s hair and warming the backs of Crawley’s shoulders. It looked like Aziraphale taking care to answer Kitane’s endless questions with thoughtful patience and flashes of humour, not just because she was a child but because she was a child whom Crawley loved, and that meant something to Aziraphale, even then. It looked… easy.

It wouldn’t always. There would be moments when it seemed as if no amount of mutual affection could scale the walls of Aziraphale’s anxiety, or Crawley’s cynicism. But no matter how difficult things got between them, at the back of his mind Crawley held this afternoon, a vision of what this young, sparking thing between them might one day grow into.

Eventually, the eating part of the lunch gave way to the sitting-around-sleepily-in-the-sun portion, at least for the adults of the party. Aziraphale and Kitane were discussing this year’s bull-leaping champions - or rather, Aziraphale was leaning against the tree as Kitane discussed the bull-leapers, extolling the virtues of this, the greatest sport ever created, while demonstrating some remarkably athletic manoeuvres for someone with a full stomach.

Crawley left them to it and took Pura for a sneaky toilet break in a secluded bit of shrubbery, miracling the mess away when he was done. Aziraphale was right, Crawley thought, holding both the boy’s hands so he could toddle slowly back to the tree. Food in one end, and deal with what comes out. Nice and easy.

They hadn’t gone far, but Pura wanted to stop and grab at the pretty flowers as they walked and really, who was Crawley to hurry him? When they got back to the tree, both he and Pura were sporting matching flowers tucked behind their ears.

“Crawley!” shouted Kitane when they drew close. “Aziraphale’s never even played knucklebones!”

Crawley laughed. “No, I imagine he hasn’t. They don’t have it where he comes from.”

“I thought you two were from the same place,” said Kitane, her nose wrinkling. “And that’s why you’re so wei- So different-looking,” she corrected, under Crawley’s precision-strike eyebrow raise.

“We’re from the same sort of place,” said Crawley, sitting down with Pura between his legs. Pura decided he hadn’t actually finished walking just yet, and Crawley helped him keep his balance as he stomped his fat little feet on the grass.

“It’s like I’m from the kingdom next door,” Aziraphale explained. “We’ve got some things in common, but there’s quite a lot that’s different.”

Thankfully, Kitane wasn’t interested in finding out any more details.

“Rubbish that you don’t have knucklebones,” she said. “Here, I’ll show you.”

She pulled a battered, drawstring pouch out of the satchel, knelt down near Aziraphale, and started to clear the lunchtime detritus away from the patch of grass between them.

“Do you want to play, Crawley?” she said, getting comfortable.

“No thanks, sweetheart. Pura can’t play with them yet, remember?”

Kitane nodded, seriously. “I have to keep them away from where Pura can get them, because they’re small enough that he could swallow them and choke by accident,” she said to Aziraphale, in the tone of someone reciting something very important that has been thoroughly drilled into them.

“That’s very responsible of you,” said Aziraphale. “Now, what do we do?”

“So, you hold out your hand like this, and then you put on some on the top, see? And you throw them and try and catch them and that’s how many you have to get.”

There was a polite pause.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain it like I’m very stupid, my dear.”

It took a few goes, but between Kitane’s enthusiasm and Aziraphale’s earnest dedication to understanding her somewhat rambling instructions, they eventually got a game going.

They started simply enough, with a scattering of animal bones on the grass between them - not actually knuckle bones, despite the name, but one of the bones of the ankle. In turn, they threw a single bone into the air and tried to pick up as many from the grass as possible while still having time to catch the thrown knucklebone before it landed.

From there, things got complicated. Kitane added this rule and that, and Aziraphale riffed on them - to Kitane’s absolute delight - and eventually they were playing a fast-paced, complicated game almost entirely of their own making. The click and rattle of the bones filled the air as they were thrown, interspersed with Kitane and Aziraphale’s various cheers and cries of commiseration.

Pura, tired of the day’s exertions, waddled to Crawley with his arms outstretched. Crawley lifted him into his lap and held him close, delighting in the feel of his soft, warm body against his chest. Sweet baby smell wafted from the top of Pura’s curly head. Crawley was feeling… a lot of things. Too many, he decided. Feeling was a lot like swimming, in Crawley’s opinion - if you over-thought it, you only ended up in a spluttering, flailing mess of your own making.

Instead, as Pura fell asleep in his arms, he listened to Kitane and Aziraphale laughing together, and let the surges of emotions break over him like waves on a shore. There would be long nights enough to pick over them, holding up this and that and trying to work out how it could possibly all fit inside the thing he thought he was. But, that sounded like a problem for Future-Crawley.[5] For now, he would sit in the warm, and cuddle the baby, and not think too much about anything at all.

Eventually, it came time for them to leave. Kitane’s grandmother would be finished with her meeting soon, and they had arranged to meet at the court complex to walk back into town together. They packed their things away, leaving the crumbs for the birds. Kitane wandered off, lost in important six-year-old thoughts. Crawley lifted Pura up, jutting his hip out to rest the boy on it while he talked to Aziraphale.

“Are you heading into town?” he said, trying to keep his tone light and failing abjectly.

Aziraphale pulled a face. “I… don’t think so,” he said slowly. “I thought I might look around the gardens a bit more, and besides - I think I’d like to check in on my politician before I leave.”

There was a glint in his eye as he said it that made Crawley strongly suspect he’d worked out who it was Kitane's granny had been meeting with that morning, and suspected things might not be progressing in quite the heavenly direction they had been when he'd finished his work that morning.

“Oh, well, if you want to be difficult about it,” said Crawley, without venom.

He adjusted his hold on the bag strap. He knew what he wanted to ask, but he didn’t quite like to - it seemed too vulnerable, too revealing a question. Aziraphale answered it, all the same.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, actually,” he said, as if he didn't want to be saying it at all. “It was only a flying visit, setting some things in motion. Pity, really - it seems like a wonderful place.”

“It is,” Crawley said. “You should come back some time. Kitten would love to take you to the bull-leaping. Oh, it’s mental, Aziraphale,” he said, seeing Aziraphale’s expression and grinning. “You wouldn’t believe it, the way they go flinging themselves over the things. Worth another visit, just for that.”

Their eyes met, and once more Crawley was struck by the sheer quantity of light that Aziraphale seemed able to hold in him. There was a smile playing at his lips, brushing against this nascent thing between them.

“I’ll be here until spring," said Crawley. "Perhaps a little while longer, but…”

“Spring,” Aziraphale repeated, nodding like he was taking notes. “I see.”

Crawley pushed on, his ears warming as he spoke. “And I mean, they know me fairly well here by now so if you do come back before then… Well. I’m easy to find.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, I’ll just ask if anyone has word of a great gangly redhead with yellow eyes and a knack for child endangerment.”

Horror, delight and outrage swirled through him in a ridiculous cocktail. “Oh! The gloves are off! Gangly, I accept, but child endangerment?!”

“When I got here, your young charge was moments away from getting her skull bashed in.”

“You said she’d be fine!”

“I was being nice. If I hadn’t been here, God only knows what would have happened to her.”

Crawley’s mouth gaped, which only made Aziraphale laugh harder. “You’re horrible! You stand there, looking like a bloody hug-shaped cloud, and you’re actually a complete and total- And, besides, that was one time - it’s hardly a _knack_.”

“Oh, really?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, perfecting the look of someone playing their trump card more than two and half thousand years before playing cards were even invented. “In that case - how deep was the pond she went swimming in this afternoon?”

“You know what? I take it back. You’re not invited. You’re the opposite of invited - you’re banned. I banish you. I henceforth banish you from the city of Knossos and her surrounding territories. Begone!”

“Goodbye, Crawley.”

“Bye, angel.”

And Aziraphale stepped forwards, and dropped a simple kiss to Crawley’s lips. He turned away, ready to take himself for a turn around the gardens - and then turned back, appalled.

“Oh! Oh, they do that here, don’t they? Kiss goodbye? I didn’t even think to check, it’s so much the norm back in-”

“Yes, Aziraphale, they kiss goodbye here.” Aziraphale relaxed, his shoulders slumping. Crawley added, “It’s for friends, mostly. So maybe give it a miss with your politician.”

A twinkle came into Aziraphale’s eye. “Friends? Even only ‘sort of’ friends?” Crawley was going to argue, but Aziraphale cut him off, laughing. “I’ll see you around, Crawley. If not before spring, then… Somewhere else. Bye, Kitane!” he called, waving. “It was nice to meet you!”

Crawley looked, and saw Kitane waving back, grinning her big, gappy grin. When he turned back, Aziraphale was already making his way down the path away from him, a flash of pink and white among the flowers. A wry smile stole over his face. Future-Crawley was going to be wrestling with this one for _years_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 An unnecessary modifier - there is no other kind of little girl.
> 
> 2 Kitane had learnt a number of things from her favourite babysitter, including an unassailable sense of self-worth and a range of hair braiding techniques that made her the envy of all under-10s in the city. The glare she here employed, however, was entirely of her own making. Some things just come naturally.
> 
> 3 Aziraphale’s blushes would, in time, become something of a preoccupation for Crawley. It seemed such an innocuous thing for an angel to do. Over the coming centuries Crawley would catalogue all the different things that coloured Aziraphale’s cheeks - sun, laughter, drink, embarrassment… It would be a long, long time yet before he really understood the soil in which his fascination grew its roots. Until then, he simply marvelled.
> 
> 4 Not that Crawley knew, precisely, that that was what he had done. The miracle was more along the lines of, ‘Be safe for this baby to drink from’. He’d heard too many stories of children who used such cups coming down with nasty stomach bugs, and wasn’t about to take any chances.
> 
> 5 Past-Crawley and Future-Crawley were not, and never had been, on good terms with one another. The rift was entirely Past-Crawley’s fault, but Future-Crawley never seemed to even the score. Diplomatic relations between the two only deteriorated in the Crowley era, reaching an all time low one August afternoon in the late 2000s, somewhere over the M25.


	3. 41 CE - XII Scripta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Rome, Aziraphale comes across a sulky demon and sets about trying to cheer him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's rome! it's oysters! it's giggly drunks being adorable! it's heavy reliance on [that one tumblr post](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/190960847261/crowleys-roman-look-is-very-strange) detailing why crowley's clothes in rome are weird as heck!
> 
> no cws for this chapter, just some canon-typical alcohol consumption.
> 
> thanks once more to mortifyingideal for telling me what oysters taste like! first coriander, now this - we cant keep meeting this way ;)
> 
> also, shes never going to see this but shout-out to my friend emma for telling me everything i know about romans, including writing a [VERY wonderful book about the VERY fascinating agrippina the younger](https://www.emmasouthon.com/agrippina-empress-exile-hustler-whore) which i heartily recommend to anyone who likes history, snarky humour, badass women in history, or books with rudey dudey words in.
> 
> as always, please let me know if u think something needs tagged or warned for, and if you spot any typos or formatting errors, let me know in the comments. historical inaccuracies, however, are there on purpose (exquisite corpse, im looking at you...)
> 
> finally, you can always come and say hello on [tumblr!](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) id be very happy to see you :D

“Ah, no - that’s your job, isn’t it?”

It wasn’t much of a joke. Hardly a joke at all, really. But something cousin to a smile played on Crowley’s lips as he took his drink, and Aziraphale felt a flush of pride at the sight - and, almost as quickly, rushed to squash the feeling. Not only was pride a sin, but to be proud of making a demon smile made him feel altogether more complicated than he was willing to examine on a sunny afternoon.

He took refuge in his drink, and regretted it immediately.

“Good grief, what is that?” he spluttered.

It was the wrong thing to say. The cloud that had just started to lift from Crowley’s brow thundered back into place.

“How should I know?” Crowley snapped. “I asked for something to drink and she gave me this. Sorry it’s not refined enough for your bloody Roman palate…”

Crowley’s ears were turning a hot, clashing pink - a sure sign this angry outburst was more to do with embarrassment than anything else. Aziraphale could have kicked himself. He rifled through what little he knew about Crowley, doing a quick inventory of the encounters they’d had over the millennia, looking for something he could say or do to improve the situation.

There were more of those encounters than he might have expected, even allowing for the overlap in their professional endeavours. It seemed like every few hundred years, something came along to push them into each other’s paths, and the frequency had only increased in the last few centuries. Why, it hadn’t even been a decade since they saw each other in Golgotha - the shortest time between their meetings yet.

And yet, there was still so much he didn’t know about Crowley. It was like he was painting an image of him in his mind, but so far it was almost all negative space, things he’d subtracted from his idea of what a demon _ought_ to be to make the shape of what this one, particular demon actually _was_. He wondered how long it would take for him to learn enough to start filling in the details. He resolutely did not wonder why the prospect gave him flutters of excitement.

Incomplete as the portrait was, he knew that an apology would only make things worse. Better to pretend he didn’t know Crowley’s embarrassment for what it was and let him breeze past it in his own way.

With a quick look around to see the barmaid was busy with another customer, Aziraphale clicked his fingers, turning the ‘house brown’ into a slightly surprised nine-year-old Alban wine.

“That’ll go down more easily,” he said brightly. “I’ve some water left at my table to mix it with. Come on.”

He didn’t give Crowley chance to argue. In his experience, it was better not to. He simply stood and went back to the seat he’d had when he’d first seen Crowley at the bar, taking the jug of wine with him.

Crowley slid into the seat opposite just as Aziraphale was adding a generous splash of water to his own cup. He did the same for Crowley and took a sip. The wine was sweet without being cloying, and perfectly aged - just as he’d expected it to be. He gave a satisfied hum, and indulged in another mouthful. Then, his eyes landed on a pile of objects on his side of the table, forgotten when he’d gone up to greet Crowley. His face lit up.

“Oh! I was playing a game when I saw you, it’s quite simple - would you like a go? Pass the time, if you’re not in the mood for conversation,” he added when Crowley’s frown didn’t lift. Under the table, Crowley’s knee was bouncing compulsively, making the table rock slightly.

“If you didn’t think I wanted to talk to you, why invite me for a drink?”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t think you didn’t want to talk to me. I just thought you didn’t want to talk in general. And that’s not the same thing as wanting to be on your own, is it?”

A strange, half-smile crept onto Crowley’s face. “No,” he admitted. “No, I suppose it isn’t. What’s the game?”

“Wonderful! So, you take those, and I’ll take these…” Aziraphale pushed three black stones over to Crowley’s side of the table, scooping up the three white stones for himself. “It’s very simple, I’m sure you’ve played something like it before. We take turns to lay our stones in the grid, and the first to get three in a row wins.”

Crowley made a noise of understanding. “Like noughts and crosses,” he said, hefting the black stones in his hand, enjoying the weight of them.

“Pretty well,” Aziraphale agreed. “The only difference is, you can move the stones after laying them down so the game goes on a little longer.”

That seemed to satisfy Crowley. “Alright, then. You first.”

Aziraphale laid a white stone down on the cloth grid between them, and the game began.

They played quickly and quietly, and in a few minutes, Crowley moved one of his stones to complete a row of three Aziraphale hadn’t seen coming.

“I win,” he said, unable to keep the satisfaction out of his voice.

“Well done! Another?”

Crowley shrugged as if he didn’t mind either way, but Aziraphale thought he could spot the telltale signs of his improving mood. His leg had stopped bouncing, for one thing, and his shoulders had dropped, losing some of their tight anxiety.

Aziraphale drank as they played, but when he went to refill Crowley’s cup after finishing his own, he realised Crowley had hardly touched it.

Across the table, Crowley looked apologetic. “I don’t really like sweet wine,” he admitted.

Aziraphale considered. “You’ve been away in the north, haven’t you? I suppose I could try making some beer,” he said hesitantly, “but I don’t know it very well. Might end up with something worse than you had to begin with. Unless you want to try?”

Crowley pulled a face. “I can’t do drinks,” he said. “Or food, for that matter. Everything comes out tasting of-”

“Peppercorns?” He hadn’t meant to interrupt. At Crowley’s expression, he fumbled for an explanation. “I’ve just- I’ve noticed, over the years, you know. Your miracles, they tend to have a sort of… signature scent? It’s not bad,” he rushed to add. Crowley’s mouth had started to twist in something unacceptably like discomfort. “I’ve always rather liked it, actually. It suits you. Sort of… spicy. And expensive.”

At that, Crowley really did raise his eyebrows. Aziraphale’s stomach flipped, most unhelpfully. He could feel the warmth rising in his cheeks and forced himself not to look away, even if all he could see in Crowley’s glasses was his own reflection.

“It’s nice,” he said, and attempted a shrug - the picture of nonchalance.

Crowley looked at him for a moment longer. “Yours smell like fresh bread,” he said. He took a swig of his wine, determined to get used to the stuff. He licked his lips. “This doesn’t though,” he added, a note of surprise. “How’d you manage that?”

Aziraphale grinned, too thrilled to stop himself. “Fresh bread? Really? Gosh. I noticed things tasted a bit off but I never quite- Never mind,” he said, cutting himself off with a shake of his head. “I think it’s just a matter of concentration,” he said, referring to the wine. “It still slips through sometimes, if I’m tired or distracted, you know.”

“I didn’t think you got tired,” Crowley said. He laid a stone down on the grid, starting a new game. “Seem to remember you making a fuss about not sleeping.”

“Oh, I don’t. Sleep, I mean. And I suppose tired isn’t quite the right word, not exactly. It’s just… You know when you’re doing something and you suddenly realise that if you have to keep doing it for a single moment longer, you might really, actually scream?”

At that, Crowley really, actually laughed. “Yep,” he said, feelingly. “I know that one. What do you do, then, if you don’t sleep?”

Aziraphale considered, taking the moment to move one of his stones to block Crowley’s row. “I read,” he said thoughtfully. “Or I go for a walk. Or food! You were quite right,” he adds, in a conspiratorial tone. “It’s marvellous, and they’re only getting better at it - I had this thing the other day, it was a sort of, deep fried ball of cheese curd? Served with honey and poppy seeds, they were absolutely divine, and you really must try-”

He broke off. Crowley was looking at him, his chin in his hand, dark glasses doing nothing at all to hide the expression on his face. Aziraphale beamed, feeling vaguely like he ought to be embarrassed by the attention. As it was, he rather basked in it.

“Well,” he said. “You get the idea. What about you, if sleeping isn’t an option?”

Crowley smiled back, the dregs of his bad mood melting away. “Me? Oh, I just… find a tavern to sulk in and hope someone takes it upon themselves to cheer me up.”

“Oh? How’s that working out for you?”

“I’ve had some encouraging results.”

Something warm and wonderful curled itself around Aziraphale’s ribs, like a cat claiming a sunbeam. He rather suspected it would stay there forever - or at least, as long as Crowley kept smiling at him.

“How about those oysters?” he offered.

“Sure - once I’ve won a couple more times.” He knocked back the last of his drink and held out his cup for a refill, every movement flooded with irresistible arrogance. “You know, I think this stuff’s growing on me.”

By the time they left the tavern, the wine had grown on Crowley rather a lot. His cheeks were flushed with it, and whenever Aziraphale caught a flash of his eyes behind the glasses, they shone with bright mischief. Not that Aziraphale was much better off, he had to admit. He wouldn’t say he was drunk, exactly, but his mind and body felt loose and easy, unhurried as they strolled towards the restaurant.

Evening had fallen while they were in the tavern, but the sun was dragging its feet, unwilling to set just yet. Rome took on a soft, peachy colour in the last of its light, and the streets were full of people laughing and chatting, ringing in the end of another working day.

“Who were you here for? Out of interest,” said Aziraphale.

“What, so you can run off and thwart me good and proper?”

“No! I’m just wondering if I know them.”

Crowley laughed. “You spend a lot of time with the sinners of society, angel?”

The warm, curling thing in Aziraphale’s chest squeezed happily at the nickname. “Of course I do,” he said primly. “Someone has to guide them to the proper path, after all. Besides,” he added, more frankly, “in Rome, you’d starve to death in a week if you only broke bread with honest men.”

They passed a group of boys playing a stripped down version of harpastum - nominally a ball game, though it looked more like a loosely organised riot to Aziraphale. Crowley turned to watch the game as they walked by, considering. A soft click, the crunch of a stray elbow meeting an unsuspecting nose, and the game disintegrated into a brawl.

“Really, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, rolling his eyes.

“Ah, it’s only what they were hoping would happen,” Crowley dismissed. Aziraphale tutted, but a quiet part of himself was very glad to see Crowley amusing himself.

They turned a corner and the sounds of the boys’ shouting faded into the background hum of the city.

“It was the emperor’s niece,” Crowley said after a moment.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in surprised. “Agrippina? Oh, I’ve got no chance if you two team up!” he laughed.

“No, that was the problem! She was five steps ahead of me - planning things I’d never even thought of. Honestly, ‘ruthless’ doesn’t even cover it. Brilliant, though,” he added, with sincere respect.

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “Smart as a whip. She’ll do great things, I’m sure. I didn’t say _good_ things,” he clarified, when Crowley shot him a look of surprise. “I’m supposed to be working with her son,” he continued. “Little Lucius.”

“Oh? How’s that going?”

Aziraphale pulled a face. “I’m going to leave it for a bit, I think. See if he grows out of it.”

Crowley made a doubtful noise.

They rounded another corner, and Petronius’s came into view. Aziraphale was under no illusions - he knew he was hardly introducing Crowley to the pinnacle of Roman society by bringing him here. Even with Petronius’s high society connections and reputation for elegance, the restaurant’s clientele would be working people, the upper crust of Roman society preferring to dine at one another’s villas than slumming it with the plebs.

It didn’t worry Aziraphale, though. Crowley could schmooze with the best of them[1] but he knew he’d be just as comfortable among the ordinary people of Rome. Perhaps even more comfortable, given the mood he was in - he’d known Crowley to get positively bitey around authority figures when the mood struck him.

And besides, Aziraphale reasoned, the oysters here really were supposed to be the best in the city. Even if Crowley didn’t enjoy them, Aziraphale intended to.

The restaurant had a wide, arched entrance with a counter to one side where people could order their food and take it back with them to their homes, or to find a quiet corner in a public square and eat while they watched the world go by.

“It can be rather lovely,” explained Aziraphale, raising his voice over the din as they pushed their way to the seating area beyond. “I quite often take lunch in the forum - find a sunny patch to sit in and people-watch. Helps the digestion, I’m sure.”

“You don’t have a digestion.”

“Here we are!” he said brightly, leading the way to a miraculously free pair of seats at a table to the side of the room. It was darker inside than it had been in the street, lit by lamps tucked into alcoves in the walls, and Aziraphale blinked, letting his eyes adjust. “Not much of a menu,” he said, “and it tends to be the simpler sort of food rather than anything extravagant. But I think there’s a lot to be said for letting ingredients speak for themselves, don’t you?”

Crowley grunted, looking around him as he took his seat. He looked about him, staring from one customer to the next, his dark eyebrows brought together in a frown. Aziraphale flagged down a tired-looking waitress and smiled up at her.

“Good evening, my dear. Could we get a jug of Falernian and some water, please, and a plate of oysters?”

The waitress nodded, and left to get their wine. Crowley turned in his seat to look over his shoulder at a group of men sitting at a table nearby. They were playing dice, piles of coins scattered on the tabletop as bets.

“I thought gambling was illegal here,” he said, wrinkling his nose thoughtfully.

“It is,” said Aziraphale, his voice neutral. “But I’ve never known something being illegal to have much impact on how much people do it.”

“Hm. Suppose.”

The answer didn’t seem to have satisfied him, though. He twisted in his seat, looking around at the other patrons. When the waitress arrived then with their wine and water, Aziraphale once again took charge and poured for the both of them.

“This might be more to your taste,” he said, pushing one cup towards Crowley. “It’s rather dryer than the Alban we were drinking earlier.”

Crowley took a sip, and shrugged. “’s all wine, isn’t it? Not much between them, if you ask me.”

Aziraphale wasn’t at all sure that was true, but he didn’t like to argue. Perhaps Crowley would develop a more discerning palate over time, he mused.

“You’ve been out of the Empire, I take it?” he said, by way of making conversation.

“Mm. Up north, like you said.”

“Germania?”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “Bit further.”

Aziraphale’s mouth formed an O of surprise. “ _Scandia_?” he said, sincerely impressed.

Crowley seemed gratified by the reaction. “Yup,” he said, swigging his wine. He wiggled his eyebrows. “The wild wastes.”

“I hardly think you’d spend much time there if it was as bad as all that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Crowley, playing at offence.

“It means, you like your creature comforts. I don’t blame you,” Aziraphale added quickly. “Life is altogether too long to spend it being uncomfortable.”

“I think the phrase is usually, ‘life’s too short’, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale was in the middle of taking a drink of wine. He shook his head, swallowing to speak. “No,” he said, setting his cup down. “That might be the phrase but it misses the point entirely. You can put up with all sorts of discomfort for a short amount of time. If it’s your whole life you’re talking about, may as well get comfy. And most especially in our case,” he added.

“Good point,” said Crowley, laughing softly. “Life’s too long… I like that. Anyway, they’re perfectly ‘comfy’ up there - all that guff about barbarian savages is just propaganda.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I did think it probably was. Tell me about it. I’ve never been.”

Crowley seemed momentarily surprised by the interest. He drank some wine, thinking his answer through. “It’s… cold,” he said, making Aziraphale laugh. “It is! And dark, in the winter. Nothing like scrabbling to make the most of six hours of daylight to get you dreaming about summer in the Med. But for all that…” Softness stole over his face as he drifted on the thought. “It’s beautiful,” he said, almost too quietly for Aziraphale to hear. “Completely beautiful. Snow and mountains and great fjords like rifts in the surface of the world. And there are these lights, in the sky.”

“Like stars?” Aziraphale asked, but Crowley shook his head quickly.

“No, no, it’s like… Like sheets of light. Shifting sheets of light, green then pink then blue. Oh, you have to see it, angel,” he said, voice warm with enthusiasm. “It’s like magic, honestly.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said Aziraphale, meaning it. “You’ll have to show me some time. Have you been there since Golgotha?”

“Pretty well,” said Crowley. “Heading back soon enough, too. Don’t think Rome’s really my scene. Besides, if anything it’s even more gorgeous in the spring. All the meadows come up in flowers and the bears come out of hibernation and…”

He went on, waxing lyrical about the joys of Scandia in the springtime. Aziraphale listened, a small sadness in his chest at the thought of Crowley going away again so soon. He wasn’t at all sure he agreed with Crowley’s assessment that Rome wasn’t ‘his scene’ - he could easily imagine Crowley finding a place for himself in a city as bold and brash as Rome. But he wasn’t going to argue. If Crowley wanted to spend a few years watching the lights in the sky and wandering through wildflower meadows, Aziraphale couldn’t think of any reason at all to stop him.

When the waitress arrived with their oysters, she took one look at the expression on Aziraphale’s face and raised an eyebrow, looking from him to Crowley to the oysters, and back again. Aziraphale felt his cheeks start to heat, but Crowley didn’t seem to have noticed. Besides, with any luck he had been out of the Empire long enough not to know about the associations Romans tended to make between oysters and certain… behaviours.[2]

“We’ve got rooms upstairs,” said the waitress, “if you need one.”

Aziraphale’s blush deepened. “No, thank you,” he said, firm but polite.

She shrugged as if to say, ‘Suit yourself,’ and left them to it. Aziraphale turned to the oysters, wondering where to begin. Across the table, Crowley was looking at him with a strange expression.

“Aziraphale,” he said slowly, “why does this restaurant have rooms upstairs?”

Aziraphale did not look up from his careful inspection of the oysters. “For the customers, I imagine.”

“The customers,” Crowley repeated. “And… the staff?”

“I can’t imagine Petronius taking kindly to any of his employees sleeping on the job.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. “And those women over there?” He nodded towards a group of women in colourful robes, flashing with jewellery and make-up, who were looking at the crowds with the look of horse traders eyeing up a prize mare. “They aren’t… working?”

Aziraphale glanced at the women, though he knew precisely whom Crowley meant. “They aren’t employees,” he said carefully.

Light began to dawn. “Ah. I see. They aren’t employed here but they _do_ work here?”

Aziraphale took a drink of wine, answering Crowley’s question with a small shrug.

“I suppose they do,” he said, non-committal.

“Aha. So. Not technically a brothel, then?”

A smile threatened on the edges of Aziraphale’s mouth. He looked steadily across the table at Crowley. “Not technically. And regardless,” he added, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, “I hear the food is really very good.”

Finally, Crowley burst out laughing. “Good grief, Aziraphale! Is this what you get up to when I’m not here to keep an eye on you?”

“I’m not ‘getting up to’ anything!” Aziraphale protested. “I’m just having my dinner. There’s nothing untoward about that.”

Crowley laughed again, shaking his head in amused disbelief. “Whatever you say, angel. Now - what am I doing with these little buggers?”

“So, you take it by the shell - careful, you don’t want to spill the liquor. Check it’s loose with your fork - that’s right. Then you’re going to tip the lot into your mouth, chew maybe once or twice to get the flavour out, and swallow. Like this.”

He demonstrated, tipping the briny, delicious morsel into his mouth. The flavour was magnificent, fresh and cold, if cold could be said to have a flavour. He hummed appreciatively, closing his eyes to concentrate on the taste and texture as he swallowed. When he opened them again, his heart leapt in his chest.

Crowley was sat stock still, staring at the plate of oysters between them.

“Crowley?” said Aziraphale. “Are you alright?”

A pause. Then, a smile spread over Crowley’s face like a tsunami in slow motion. His expression transformed utterly, beaming delight and joy and brilliant, wide-eyed astonishment.

“Fucking hell, Aziraphale! _That’s_ an oyster?!”

“Um. Yes? Yes, is it-”

“That’s incredible! Fucking _hell_!”

Surprise bubbled out of Aziraphale in a giggle. “You really like it?”

“Like it? It’s phenomenal. I feel like I just got kicked in the face by Poseidon. That’s… bloody hell,” he sighed, reaching for another.

Aziraphale watched, utterly delighted. “Some people put lemon juice on them,” he offered, but Crowley shook his head, swallowing.

“Maybe in a bit,” he said, eyeing up the platter. “I like them like this, I think.”

“Me too,” Aziraphale agreed. “Did you know, lemon juice can cook fish?”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Mmhmm. I’m not sure of the details, something to do with the acidity. But some people squeeze lemon all over the platter, and the oysters end up cooking in their shells, quite negating the point of ordering them fresh…”

The conversation flowed, and the warmth in Aziraphale’s chest stretched and spread, filling him up.

It was such a rare pleasure to watch Crowley indulge like this. Crowley ate, of course. They’d spent plenty of time in one another’s company eating, ever since that night after the Ark. It was part of life on Earth, breaking bread together - an act of peace at once profoundly human and touched with something sacred.

But Crowley so rarely seemed to really delight in food the way Aziraphale did. Watching him now, almost bouncing in his seat with excitement, Aziraphale knew he would offer anything to Crowley if he thought it might spark that bright, boyish enthusiasm.

Aziraphale ordered another jug of wine, smiling slightly lopsidedly at the waitress when she brought it over and started clearing the table. The restaurant had only got busier as the night wore on, people cramming in to eat and drink and blow off steam. The men playing dice had gathered quite the crowd around them, throwing bursts of cheering and laughter out like sparks from a fire.

“Can we play?” asked Crowley, almost shouting to be heard over the din. His cheeks were flushed, sweat licking at the hair behind his ears.

“With them?” said Aziraphale, eyeing the men doubtfully. Crowley waved his hand, sloppy and endearing.

“Why would I want to play with them? Don’t know them, do I? You can teach me, c’mon.”

Aziraphale scrunched his nose. “It’s not very difficult,” he said. “It’s just luck.”

Crowley banged on the table, belligerent in his cups. “Come o-o-on. Show me! ‘sides,” he added, shooting Aziraphale a winning smile, “I’m a lucky, lucky guy.”

Aziraphale snorted. With a waft of what he supposed _was_ a fresh breadish sort of smell, now he thought about it, he pulled six dice and a pair of cups out of the ether. With three dice each, they took it in turns rolling, the winner being whoever got the highest total score.

After three rounds, Crowley sat back in his seat looking dejected. “This is rubbish,” he said. “It’sss just rolling dice.”

“I did warn you! I suppose if we were betting it would make it a bit more exciting.”

“No fun, betting with you, though. ‘s not like you actually lose anything.”

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale, not particularly sorry at all.

“Noughts and crosses, and rolling dice. Not very impressive for the pinnacle of civilisation.”

“Why don’t you teach me something from Scandia?” Aziraphale suggested, offering the bottle to Crowley. “Toppers?”

“Thanksss. And you wouldn’t like our games - they all involve howling at the moon and, uh, I don’t know, eating raw meat. Altogether too savage for a polite Roman gentleman.”

Aziraphale snorted, refilling his own cup and taking a drink. “I don’t think there’s anyone here tonight who counts as a polite Roman gentleman,” he pointed out. A thought swam out of the back of his brain then, slipping out of his mouth before he could catch it. “I have a board game at home you might enjoy, actually. It’s a bit like that one we played back in Ur, do you remember? With the, um… the little…”

He made a sort of hopping motion with one hand, trying to mime the movement of pawns around a board. Crowley’s face lit up.

“Oh, yes, the little whatsssits!” he said, copying the gesture enthusiastically.

Aziraphale laughed, rocking back in his seat. “That’s it!”

“God, your whole face goes completely different when you laugh, did you know?”

The question brought Aziraphale up short. He blinked at Crowley, the smile still lingering on his mouth. “Pardon?”

Crowley’s ears had turned a tell-tale pink, but he was still smiling, too drunk to really feel embarrassed. “Sssorry,” he said, blithely. “That was supposed to be an indoor thought.”

“Indoors… in your head?” Aziraphale guessed. Crowley grinned.

“Yep. Out now though, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale laughed. How could he not? “Yes. Yes, it is, a bit. Come on,” he said, nodding towards the door. “Let me show you this game.”

He paid on their way out, slipping the waitress a hefty tip[3] before following Crowley out into the street. It was a warm night, and they chatted amiably as they meandered their way towards Aziraphale’s townhouse on Viminal Hill.

When they arrived, Crowley let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, Aziraphale. Doing alright for yourself, aren’t you?”

Aziraphale frowned. The house was nice, certainly, but it wasn’t particularly ostentatious. Then again, Crowley hadn’t had time to grow used to the wealth of Rome yet. He tried to look at the house as if seeing it from beyond the Empire.

“Thank you,” he said, leading Crowley up the steps to the front door. “I suppose I am, really.”

Crowley grunted. “And to think - I’ve spent the last eight years living in a wood hut.”

Aziraphale leant his back against the door, fixing Crowley with a look. “You said you liked it in the north.”

Crowley smiled. He was standing rather closer than Aziraphale had expected, close enough that he could see the shape of Crowley’s eyes through his dark lenses.

“I do like it,” he said.

“Well then. Stop complaining, or I won’t invite you in.”

Crowley pouted, sticking out his bottom lip and stepping closer. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he whined. “You said I could play with you.”

“That,” said Aziraphale, trying not to smile, “was an indoor thought.”

Crowley’s face was all innocence. “Whatever do you mean, angel?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, pushing open the front door and stepping inside. He was distinctly aware of Crowley following him through the cool, quiet space of the atrium, footsteps echoing slightly on the stone.

He led the way to a living room off the main entrance hall, clicking his fingers to light the lamps and set a fire burning merrily in a brazier to one side as a precaution against the night chill. The room was one of his favourites, with a beautiful mosaic floor and a collection of comfortable, elegant furniture.

He gestured for Crowley to take a seat, and stepped out for a moment to fetch a jug of wine and a plate of snacks out from the kitchen. Crowley was sprawled out on the sofa when he got back, fiddling with some trinket he’d found. He’d taken off his glasses, and that sight made Aziraphale unaccountably cheerful - as if he was seeing Crowley properly for the first time all evening.

He set the plate, wine and cups down and hunted for the game board among the knick knacks on a set of shelves.

“Ah! Here we go. Pull that table over, there’s a boy.”

Crowley did as he was asked and Aziraphale took a seat beside him, putting down the board and dropping a scattering of pieces down next to it.

“Very swish,” said Crowley, immediately picking the board up and turning it over in his hands. “Is that mother of pearl?”

Aziraphale poured the drinks, helping himself to some grapes from the platter. “It was a gift,” he said. “It is rather lovely, isn’t it?”

The board was long and narrow with three horizontal rows of markings on either end, with six marks in each row. In the space in the centre were three intricate, rose-like designs, picked out in gleaming mother of pearl. Even the game pieces were luxurious, carved out of coloured stone that flashed and gleamed where they caught the light.

Crowley put the board back down, suitably impressed and Aziraphale counted out 15 pieces for Crowley and another 15 for himself. Then he picked up the two dice and prepared to play.

“Now,” he said, authoritatively, “what you do is this. You take the pieces. And the dice.” He paused, waiting for the words to come to him. “You take the pieces and the dice,” he said again, hoping that repetition would help. “And you… You put them on the board…”

A long moment passed. He could feel Crowley watching him, but refused to look. The rules were there, somewhere in the back of his brain, if he could just dig them out…

“The point of the game, you see, it to try and move your pieces about in the, uh, winning fashion.”

“Mmhmm. And what fashion would that be, exactly?”

Aziraphale did his best, he really did. “Why, it’s really very simple, my dear boy. You simply move your pieces around the board in the manner prescribed by the rules of the game.”

He looked at Crowley then, struggling to keep a straight face. Crowley seemed to be in a similar predicament.

“The rules of the game,” he repeated back to Aziraphale, “that you have…”

“That I have quite thoroughly and completely forgotten, yes.”

Crowley collapsed into giggles, leaning against the back of the sofa, his whole body shaking with laughter. Aziraphale laughed too, looking down at the beautiful, useless board and its scattering of beautiful, useless pieces.

“I’m very sorry, my dear,” he said. “I have promised much and delivered little.”

“It’s alright,” said Crowley. He sat up, took a drink and shook his head at the board with a sigh. Then, a thought struck him. “Here - you wanna play knucklebones instead?”

Aziraphale did.

It was not, perhaps, the most sedate game of knucklebones ever played. They were already well on their way to steaming before the game began, and their co-ordination only got worse as they kept playing (and drinking). But God, Aziraphale hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time.

Crowley was on his hands and knees, searching for a rogue bone that been knocked flying.

“Stop laughing!” Crowley shouted at him, shoulders shaking with his own giggles. “I can’t… I can’t look if I’m laughing!”

That only set Aziraphale off harder, tears brimming in his eyes. Crowley wriggled forwards, squinting under a cupboard to find the missing knucklebone. Aziraphale watched him, laughter slowly dying away.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said after a moment.

“Hm? Ah! There you are, little bastard.”

Crowley slithered his hand into the space between the cupboard and the floor, fishing out knucklebone between the tips of two fingers.

“I said, can I ask you a question?”

Crowley frowned, clambering to his feet and brushing off his toga. “Sure,” he said. “Fire away.”

“I’m afraid I’m not quite sure how to phrase it,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think it’s very polite.”

“Oh, now you’ve really got me intrigued,” laughed Crowley. He took his seat again on the sofa and tossed the knucklebone down among its fellows on the table. He sat back, cup in his hand, looking utterly at home. “Ask away,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I promise not to be offended. Unless it’s really heinousss,” he added, with a wicked grin.

“Well, my dear, not to put too fine a point on it, but… what on earth are you wearing?”

Crowley gasped in mock horror and real delight. “Oh, you vicious bitch!” he howled. “Coming over all butter-wouldn’t-melt, can-I-ask-you-a-question and then you come out with that! What’s so bad about what I'm wearing?”

“You look like a game of Exquisite Corpse,” Aziraphale laughed. Crowley threw a grape at his head.

“Bugger off,” he said fondly. He pointed first to himself, then to Aziraphale. “Toga. Toga. Toga! What’sss wrong with that?”

“The toga’s alright,” Aziraphale said, eating the grape. “It’s the rest of it that’s… Look, it’s not awful. It’s just… confusing. Visually, I mean.”

“Well I didn’t think you meant theologically.” He spread his arms, a gesture of presentation. “Go on then,” he said, good naturedly. “Tell me my wrongdoings, oh arbiter of taste and fashion.”

Aziraphale looked him up and down. Start with the worst offender, he decided. He scooted closer and plucked the little crown of leaves off Crowley’s head.

“This is for generals,” he said, “and even then, only when they’re on parade.”

Crowley pushed his lower lip out. “I thought it was cool.”

“Doesn’t really matter if it’s cool,” said Aziraphale. “The point is, it looks extremely odd on some nobody just going about his business.”

“Hey. Who you calling ‘some nobody’?”

Aziraphale ignored him. He set the wreath down on the table and turned his attention to Crowley’s hair.

“The back’s alright,” he said, putting his hand to Crowley’s cheek and pushing gently to turn his head. When Crowley turned back to face him, he felt no pressing need to move his hand away. “It’s the front that’s strange. I understand that you…” He trailed off, not quite sure how to phrase it. “In Golgotha, you were wearing women’s clothes?”

“They weren’t women’s clothes. They were mine.”

“Yes, I see that, but you know what I mean. They’d be read as feminine by the locals.” Crowley shrugged, allowing the point. “Right. Well. I’m not sure if that’s what you were trying to do with the hair, but these curls at the front?” He traced the nearest loop, the hair surprisingly soft under his fingertips. “They’re usually only worn by women, here. And that’s not a problem,” he rushed to say, before Crowley could start lecturing him. “It’s just that there’s nothing else you’re wearing that says anything except ‘man’, so it’s a bit strange, you see?”

Crowley pulled a face. “Yeah,” he grumbled. “I guess. What am I supposed to have it like, then?”

“Just sort of… May I?”

He hesitated, his hand hovering over Crowley’s hair. Crowley blinked. His eyes looked very wide and yellow suddenly.

“Have at it,” he said.

Aziraphale didn’t need to touch him, really. But the rich red of Crowley’s hair had fascinated him for so long, and he’d never quite had the courage before. He ran his fingers through it, loosening the curls, letting a trickle of power out through his fingertips to make the hair lie as he expected it to. When he pulled his hands away, it was styled in a more typical fashion for a Roman man, pulled forwards and allowed to fall into its natural messy curls.

“Better?” said Crowley.

He was smiling indulgently, content to let Aziraphale amuse himself. But there was something beneath the smile - something that told Aziraphale this wasn’t an entirely one-sided pleasure. He stroked his fingers through Crowley’s hair once more, making the most of the barely-there-pretence.

“I never said you looked bad,” he reiterated. “Just a little confusing. You’d look lovely, whatever you were wearing.”

Crowley didn’t blink. He seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to. “Inside thought?”

Aziraphale held his gaze. “No. I meant that one. It’s only true, after all. So, no, you don’t look ‘better’ because you didn’t look ‘bad’ before. You just look a little more Roman.”

“Ah, yes. The great imperial project - lets make the whole world look A Little More Roman.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I’m not the empire, Crowley. You don’t need to get snippy with me.”

“Who’s snippy! Forget I said anything. I’m sure there’s more,” he said, gesturing at the rest of his outfit. He shifted position, closing what little space there had been between them, resting his arm along the back of the sofa. He even almost managed to make it look nonchalant. “Come on, angel. Make a proper Roman of me.”

Aziraphale swallowed, ignoring the leap his heart had given at Crowley’s words. He lifted his hand to pluck at the half-shawl thing on Crowley’s right shoulder. “I don’t know what this is,” he said bluntly.

Crowley made a noise. “’s just a thing, really.”

“Yes, that’s what it looks like. Like you’ve just stuck a dishcloth on your shoulder. I didn’t mean that,” he said, laughing at the face Crowley pulled. “It’s much nicer than a dishcloth. But I don’t understand it at all.”

“Oh, alright then. Off with it.”

Crowley leant to the side, giving Aziraphale a clear look at where the piece of fabric was held on by a cord knotted under Crowley’s shoulder. He had to lean close to work the knot free, and was struck by how warm the demon was. Even through the layers of his toga, Aziraphale could feel the gentle heat of him. He must be positively hot the the touch, thought Aziraphale, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

Eventually, he got the knot free and pulled off the offending piece of fabric. “There,” he said, paying no mind to the flush he knew was colouring his cheeks. Just the effects of the wine, he was sure. He went on. “The black is unusual, but there’s nothing wrong with that. And this…” He traced his fingers over the snake brooch on Crowley’s shoulder. “This is beautiful. Foreign, but beautiful.”

“Ah. The good kind of foreign.”

Aziraphale didn’t rise to the bait. “Why not just wear what you wore in the north? There’s people here from all over. You’d have stood out, rather, but I don’t think that’s ever been much of a problem for you.”

“What, and rock up at Agrippina’s place looking like a mad savage?”

“Oh, yes, I see your point. I forgot you were here for work,” he admitted. “But you could have changed afterwards.”

“No time. Went straight to the tavern and then, there you were. Besides - nobody else had been quite so rude as to tell me how revoltingly dressed I was.”

Aziraphale laughed. He leant back in his seat, not noticing at all the heavy, warm presence of Crowley’s arm stretched on the sofa behind him. “Show me what you wore in Scandia,” he said. Crowley looked surprised. “Please? I’d like to see.”

“You won’t like it…”

“Oh, come off it. I haven’t even been here for a full decade, Crowley, I hardly think I’ve gone completely native.”

“I dunno…”

“Show me!” Aziraphale knocked his knee against Crowley’s, making him laugh.

“Alright, alright! It’ll undo all your hard work, though.”

“Don’t care. Want to see.”

Crowley sat up straight[4] and rolled his shoulders. Then, he clicked his fingers, and transformed.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the small gasp that slipped out of him. Crowley looked… astonishing. He wore a red tunic, cinched at the waist with a leather belt and decorated with fine, black embroidery at the collar and cuffs. Beneath, and most shocking to Roman sensibilities, a pair of narrow, wool trousers. Gold flashed at his neck and wrists and in his ears. His hair was long again, two tiny braids on either side of his head pulled back into a bigger braid that snaked down over one shoulder. And he had a beard. Aziraphale couldn’t stop staring. _Crowley_ had a _beard_.

Aziraphale had, he realised, woefully underestimated how much he had incorporated Roman tastes into his own. There was no denying it - he was looking at Crowley with Roman eyes now. The trousers were shocking enough, but his eyes were drawn back again and again to Crowley’s beard. It was darker than his hair, closer to his eyebrows in colour, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but see it as a Roman would. Beards were taboo in Rome, carrying with them connotations not only of being uncivilised but also somehow Grecian. And with that association came a whole host of other assumptions about a man and his proclivities…

There were no two ways about it, Aziraphale realised. Crowley looked _gay_. He looked wild and uncivilised and completely, utterly, flamingly gay.[5]

“Oh,” he managed.

Crowley’s face twisted in a nervous grimace. “That bad, is it?”

The tone of his voice snapped Aziraphale back to himself. “No! No, no it’s not that!” He laughed, nervous and breathy. “I, uh. I think I’ve gone more native than I realised,” he admitted. “Took me by surprise, that’s all. No, you look marvellous.”

A cautious smile. “You think?”

Aziraphale nodded, determined not to let Crowley feel bad. It was true, after all - whatever else he might look, he was certainly beautiful. “Definitely. I like these,” he said, gesturing at the trousers. They were red and black, woven into a check pattern that Aziraphale was really quite taken with. “Are they wool?”

“Yeah, same as the tunic. Bottom layer’s linen, then wool on top. Course in winter there’d be layers on top of this - sheepskin, fur, whatever it takes to keep warm, really.”

Aziraphale nodded. He brought his hand to brush the gold hoops that studded Crowley’s ear. “These are beautiful,” he said, his voice soft. “The neck ring, too.”

Finally, he brought himself to consider the beard once more. He brushed his fingers over Crowley’s cheek. It was coarser than the hair on his head, thick and dark. Crowley had gone completely still, watching him with snake-like patience.

“I’ve never seen you with a beard before,” he said. “I like it. You look…” He licked his lips, the whisper of a smile coming to him with the words. “You look like a barbarian.”

Crowley leant closer, just a fraction. A gleam came into his eyes. His voice when he spoke was low, barely loud enough to carry across the narrowing space between them. “Yeah? Do I look dangerous, angel?”

Aziraphale felt his smile slip. He bit his lip, tried to breathe. “Yes,” he said, honestly. “A little.”

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the thump of it so hard it made the front of his toga jump. Crowley was close enough he could count the freckles on his nose, see the fine lines around his eyes, could not miss the flick of those eyes as they moved from Aziraphale’s mouth and back. Aziraphale swallowed. He wanted to speak, but there were no words when he reached for them. Crowley got there before him.

“I think I should go,” he said, his voice impossible gentle.

It was like his words unlocked a door Aziraphale hadn’t realised he’d closed. At once, he was reminded of who he was, who Crowley was, what they were supposed to be to one another. He blinked.

“Yes,” he managed. “Yes, you… you probably should.”

His eyes met Crowley’s once more, and a sudden shyness came over him. He let slip a nervous giggle. To his endless delight, Crowley giggled too, struck too by the ridiculousness of the situation, and the moment burst like a soap bubble.

“I’ll show you out,” Aziraphale said, still laughing.

“For the best, I think,” Crowley agreed.

Aziraphale walked him to the door, taking the moment of dark in the atrium to smile to himself. Ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. But that didn’t stop him enjoying it. At the door, he turned to Crowley with a sigh.

“Well. Here we are, then.”

“Here we are.”

“Are you sure you’re not staying in Rome?”

Crowley shook his head, pulling a face. “Nah. This has been nice but I… I’d like to get back. Thanks for dinner,” he added.

“Oh, you’re quite welcome. You can take me out somewhere next time we run into each other.”

“Yeah,” said Crowley, warmth in his eyes. “Yeah, I’d like that. Now - how do they say goodbye in these parts?”

Aziraphale spoke without thinking. “Oh, the usual. Hugs and kisses.”

Crowley grinned. “That so? Well,” he said, stepping closer. “When in Rome…”

Before Aziraphale realised what was happening, Crowley dipped his head and kissed him. It was quick and chaste, barely any different to the hundreds of kisses they’d shared in greeting and farewell over the years. But it sent a wave of delight through Aziraphale all the same. Crowley’s mouth was firm and warm, his lips just barely parted, giving Aziraphale the slightest, most fleeting impression of the heat that lay behind them. And the beard, the scratch of it shocking against his skin, making it impossible for him not to imagine what it might feel like pressed against his cheek, his neck...

And then, it was over, and Crowley was stepping back with a ridiculous grin on his face, looking for all the world like he’d just got away with something scandalous. Aziraphale felt like laughing. He was fizzing with sensation, bubbling up with all sort of feelings he didn’t have the first idea what to do with.

“See you around, angel.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Goodbye, Crowley. Safe home.”

He watched Crowley slope off down the street, then slipped inside and closed the door. For a moment, he stood there in the cool, marble dark, smiling to himself. His lips still tingled with the tickling memory of Crowley's beard. He laughed, quiet and surprised, his breath leaving him in a sigh.

"Oh," he said aloud. "Oh dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The memory of Crowley drifting through the court of Ramses II would stay with Aziraphale as long as he lived, twisting courtiers around his fine fingers like so much string, body dripping with gold, his dress so finely woven it was almost see-through. No wonder it had taken ten plagues to sway the pharaoh, with Crowley’s kohl-wrapped eyes blinking at him, slow and cat-like from across the throne room.
> 
> 2 He did not. He would find out some decades later, and after a few minutes of mental acrobatics as he tried to figure out how exactly he felt about the revelation, would eventually settle on simply being _impressed_. Here was Aziraphale, spontaneously pulling off a textbook temptation right under Crowley’s nose, and he hadn’t even realised it. And he’d always assumed _he_ was the wily one of the two of them.
> 
> 3 And resolutely ignoring the knowing look in her eyes as she watched them leave.
> 
> 4 Or at least, as straight as his resolutely snakey spine would allow.
> 
> 5 In a little more than 1,900 years, Aziraphale would be sitting in a bar in Soho when a man would walk in dressed in black leather, his muscular arms on display, a virile moustache adorning his top lip. Upon seeing him, Aziraphale would be instantly transported back to this moment, borne away on the heady mix of power, sex and masculine energy.


	4. 664 CE - Fidhcheall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a hot day in seventh century Ireland, Crowley and Aziraphale hone their skills in that fine and ancient art - skiving off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, friends! guess who's got two thumbs and is sitting in a cold house in northern ireland desperately trying to remember what the sun looks like? iiiiiit's this guy B) B) B)
> 
> no cws for this chapter. they aren't even drinking, unusually for these two!
> 
> for anyone interested, the song aziraphale is singing is called 'let all mortal flesh keep silence', and it dates at least to the third century if not older. its been stuck in my head for weeks. send help.
> 
> one day i'll write a chapter that involves them eating food ive, you know, ever actually tasted. unfortunately, tofu and vegan cheese just don't evoke the right sort of emotions! so it's thanks again to mortifyingideal for their enthusiastic description of salmon and how to cook it. the only thing i know about salmon is that its pink, and that i once read an x files fic where scully's nips were described as being 'crayola salmon coloured'.
> 
> give me a shout if theres anything you think needs tagged or warned for that ive missed, or if you spot any typo-sized errors or formatting mistakes. i always feel like i shld confess my historical inaccuracy crimes in these notes but im resisting the urge. i. am. resisting.
> 
> come and say hello on [tumblr](https://indieninja92.tumblr.com/) if you're enjoying the fic, or if you just want to chat about crotal bells, medieval underwear, and/or unvoiced fricatives in insular celtic languages.

Crowley stretched, and considered burning. His skin pulled deliciously over his bones and muscles as he moved, motion for the sake of motion. Grass cool on his back, air so thick that every twist of his long, sun-drunk limbs felt like pushing through treacle.

He’d been hotter, of course. Even in the sultry dog-days of high summer, Ireland never came close to the outrageous heat of Egypt and the Middle East. The difference, Crowley decided, was contrast. There was no joy in being hot in the desert. Here, a day like this meant celebration - shirts stripped gladly from sweating backs, work shirked, laughing bodies plunging into water, a holiday mood infecting all but the most determinedly dour.

Away in the direction of Crowley’s feet, the river ran sluggish and deep, the sound of it adding a soothing, background hum to the stillness. Over this lay birdsong and the sound of insects whirring lazily about their business. On either side of the riverbank was the wood, cool and secret, bright sunlight reduced to dapples through the canopy. Not that Crowley was sitting in the shade. He’d found the perfect spot beside the river, uncovered by the reaching arms of ash and oak. There, on the grassy bank, he basked, eyes closed, unable to keep from smiling.

He didn’t tend to burn in the sun, for obvious reasons. Freckles, he was all for - already he’d gathered a fine collection for the summer, licking across his nose and cheeks, his shoulders, his collarbones. He suspected there were more on his back, but he couldn’t quite twist round enough to get a proper look. Perhaps if he stayed out in the sun long enough, he mused, they’d all join up and he’d have something like a proper tan.

Burning, though, was something different. It wasn’t something he indulged in often - even the word felt strange, to indulge, but as odd as it was, it felt right. It was a strange pleasure but a pleasure nonetheless. Something about the tickling, itching tightness of the skin, the feeling of being marked by the passage of time, of carrying the memory of the day in his body.

He arched his back, feeling like the earth was pressing upwards, holding him aloft, rather than him pressing down against it. Perhaps, he thought, he’d catch the sun a little - a kiss of prickling pink on the bridge of his nose and the high points of his cheeks…

Something caught then, at the very edge of his hearing. A high, rhythmic sound. Bells, he thought - crotal bells, hanging from the harness of a horse, doing their job of announcing the presence of the horse and rider before they came into sight. 

Whoever it was, they could at least pick up the pace a bit, get the interruption over and done with. Judging by the lopsided rhythm of the bells, the horse was moving at more of a saunter than a walk, taking its sweet time through the shady woods. If Crowley was feeling generous, he’d have allowed for the heat of the day, and his own disinclination towards any kind of physical activity in this kind of weather. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t.

There was a path - barely more than a dirt track - through the woods behind Crowley’s patch of sunshine, running parallel to the river. As the bells grew louder, Crowley became sure the rider was on this same path, heading west towards Baile an tSratha, probably planning to join the north road from there and ride up towards Dún na nGall.

Crowley rolled onto his front, the grass tickling his belly, and reached for a loop of string he’d been fiddling with before starting his second nap of the day. It was a little over a metre long, with a tiny knot keeping the loop closed. With practised movements, he started twisting it around his fingers, propped up on his elbows to leave his hands free.

He flicked his fingers, the pattern of the string stretched between his palms shifting like a kaleidescope as he considered his options. He didn’t want to see anyone. He’d come here, to the end of the world, expressly because he did not want to see anyone. He was on _holiday_.[1]

He could put the fear in, he supposed. Pull some shadows, twist some trees, give the rider the kind of fright that would send them back the way they’d come with a warning for anyone who might follow in their path…

Crowley threw himself face down on the grass with a groan. That sounded like _work_.

He resigned himself to letting the rider go past unmolested. It wasn’t what they deserved, after disturbing his peace like that.

“Count yourself lucky,” he mumbled into the grass.

The bells grew louder. To Crowley’s horror, he realised there was another noise coming over the air to him. Horror became rage as he realised what the sound was. The noisy bugger was _singing_ to themselves, a slow, plodding sort of song in a minor key.

Crowley rolled over onto his back, gritting his teeth. Someone preserve him from jumped up, idiotic, noisy warbling bastard horsemen and their jingling bloody-

Hang about. He knew that warbling.

He scrunched his nose, straining his ears. Then he gave a shout of excitement. He’d know that voice anywhere, that ridiculous fussy voice. Apart from anything else, Crowley had grown used to the rolling burr of the local accent - those cut-glass vowels stuck out like a sore thumb.

“Rank on rank the host of heaven,” sang the voice, transformed from nuisance to source of outrageous joy. “Spread its vanguard on the way…”

Crowley scrambled to his feet, too excited to be embarrassed about it. He was about to rush out to the road and stopped, suddenly unsure. He should put a shirt on. He didn’t know where his shirt was. He had a couple of bags with him - one of them surely had a shirt in, he’d had a shirt on when he came into the woods, it had to be- Oh, Christ, what was his hair doing? It was cropped close on the back and sides with an unruly thatch on top that he’d thought rather debonair, in a rough-and-tumble sort of way. Now it struck him as rather more through-a-hedge-backwards.

“As the Light of light descendeth,” sang the voice, altogether closer than Crowley had expected. “From the realms of endless day…”

He didn’t have time for this. He dithered a moment longer, still worrying about his bare chest before deciding that he’d spent altogether too much of his time on earth wandering around the Mediterranean in a state of undress to come over shy about it now.

Decided, he shot off into the trees, just barely managing to stop himself from bouncing out into the road. Twigs and bits of tree root wisely kept out the way of his bare feet as he picked out a suitable spot to lounge. A quick glance down the road - the horse was still almost thirty feet away, the rider mercifully oblivious to Crowley fidgeting in the the trees at the roadside.

He leant on a silver birch, folding his arms. No, elbow up. No, lean his shoulder like- No, folded ar- No, elbow, definitely elb-

With a grunt of frustration, Crowley threw himself into a pose of cool, collected calm, and forced himself to hold it until it started to feel natural.

“That the powers of hell may vanish,” sang the rider, lost in the song and the rhythmic chink of crotal bells. “As the darkness clears away…”

“So much for letting all mortal flesh keep silent,” called Crowley, just managing to wrangle his puppy-dog grin into something like a smirk.

Aziraphale - of course, Aziraphale, who else but Aziraphale - started in his saddle. His eyes fell on Crowley, and to Crowley’s endless, soaring delight, he smiled. It was exactly the kind of smile Crowley was at that moment trying to stop from spreading over his own face - big and joyful, and altogether too keen. Crowley’s heart gave a jump, and he couldn’t blame it. It was quite a thing, to be the cause of a smile like that.

“Doesn’t apply, dear boy,” Aziraphale called back, cheerfully. He gestured to himself. “Not mortal.”

Crowley laughed despite himself. He already felt better than he had in months. He last saw Aziraphale in a pokey, smoke-filled inn somewhere near the Welsh border about a year before. They’d been running into one another with increasing frequency since their spat in Wessex back in the 530s. Crowley wasn’t complaining. Occasional hissy fits aside, the angel had proven excellent company over the centuries, and the seventh was no exception.

“Do you know,” said Aziraphale, directing his horse towards where Crowley was slouching, “they said at the village back there that these woods were haunted.”

A sly smile spread over Crowley’s face. “Is that so?”

“Mm. They were quite convinced of it. Apparently, something’s been spooking the horses.”

“And yet, here you are.”

Aziraphale pulled up to a stop, looking down at Crowley with a spark of humour in his eyes. He was easy in the saddle, exuding an air of irresistible competence.

“I liked my chances,” he said.

Crowley wasn’t listening. Every time he saw Aziraphale, he remembered all over again how nice it was to see him. Even when they were nominally in each other’s bad books, Aziraphale could be depended on to be better company than most.[2]

For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, grey eyes holding gold. Then, with a sad smile, Aziraphale sighed.

“I can’t stay,” he said, answering a question Crowley hadn’t asked yet.

“What? Why not?”

“I’m supposed to be in Inis Eoghain by tomorrow lunchtime,” Aziraphale said. “I was hoping to get at least to Bealach Féich before nightfall.”

Crowley snorted. “You won’t get there until the middle of next week, pace you were going.”

“Oh, don’t.” Aziraphale slumped. “It’s too hot to go any faster.”

“Mm. Too hot to trot,” Crowley grinned, enjoying the plosives.

Inis Eoghain was the name of a large peninsula about 50 miles north. At the peninsula’s entrance was a ring fort that served as the royal seat of Ailech, the sprawling kingdom encompassing most of the north west of the island. Crowley had been up that way not too long ago himself, whispering in ears, as was his wont. He leant back on his tree and sucked his teeth thoughtfully.

“Going to talk to Máel Dúin?” he asked, naming the current king of Ailech.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the plan,” he said cautiously. Crowley wrinkled his nose.

“Don’t bother. Lost cause.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure, with the right influence-”

“Angel. I’m telling you. That bloke is a power hungry old bastard who isn’t going to rest until he sees one of his crowned High King of Ireland. You’d do just as much good staying here.” ‘With me,’ he did not add.

Aziraphale’s horse, a white mare with a dopey, but cheerful, look about her, flicked her ears and nickered to herself. Aziraphale patted her neck absent-mindedly, looking down the road with an anxious crease forming between his eyebrows.

“I’m supposed to be there by tomorrow,” he repeated, sounding distinctly uncertain.

Crowley knew an opening when he saw one. “That’s a long way to go in weather like this,” he said, all sympathy. “You’re already looking a bit warm.”

This was an understatement. Kitted out in chain mail with a wool tabard over the top, Aziraphale was looking distinctly rosy-cheeked. Sweat lingered in the creases of his forehead as it crinkled even further.

“There’s nice patch beside the river back here,” Crowley went on. He kept his tone light, as if making a simple observation. “It’s cooler by the water. Cooler still, in it.” At that, Aziraphale met his eyes, anxiety over-ridden by suspicion. “You could paddle,” Crowley offered, innocently.

“You’re tempting me.”

An accusation, not a confession. Crowley raised his eyebrow.

“Not much of a temptation. It’s not a sin, after all, to sit on a sunny patch of grass on a hot day.”

“It depends on the circumstances,” Aziraphale shot back. “It is if you’re supposed to be somewhere else.”

“Is it? ‘Thou shalt not sit in the sunshine and enjoy thyself’? Don’t remember that one.”

“Thou shalt… do as th’art bloody told,” said Aziraphale, resolutely not laughing.

Crowley had no such compunction. “You must have had a different copy to mine!” he laughed. “Mine was all ass coveting. Come on! You can’t be doing wrong if you’re not doing anything, can you?”

Aziraphale sat up a bit straighter. “Of course you can. It’s like lying by omission. All it takes for evil to succeed is for good people to do nothing,” he added primly.

Crowley thought there was rather a lot to be said on the subject of Aziraphale and lying by omission, but it didn’t seem likely to go down well. He changed tack.

“That’s a good point,” he said seriously.

Aziraphale blinked. “It is?”

“Mm. Very. Does it work the other way, do you think?” he said, as if the thought were just occurring to him.

“…how do you mean?”

“All it takes for good to succeed is for evil people to do nothing?”

Aziraphale, who knew Crowley well enough by now to be wary of this kind of question, pursed his lips. “I suppose…”

“So if, for example, evil were in fact doing nothing, it would be in good’s interest to keep it that way.” He met Aziraphale’s eye, and let his smile grow sharp. “Be an awful shame if evil got bored.”

Even in the heat of the day, Aziraphale blanched.

“You wouldn’t.”

“How fast do you reckon old Swiftrunner there can go? Faster than, say… the click of your fingers?”

A look of thunder descended on Aziraphale’s face. “You wouldn’t! You know I’m-” He cut himself off, blushing furiously and glancing up at the sky as if the clouds would part any moment and reveal Gabriel’s massive face looking sternly down at them. “You know my… current circumstances,” he hissed.

Crowley cackled. The last time he’d seen Aziraphale, the angel had been under audit for his profligate use of miracles.

“That is entirely your own doing!” Crowley laughed, spurred on by the look on Aziraphale’s face, mortification vying with indignation.

“It is not!” he protested. “It’s them upstairs, playing silly buggers.”

Crowley was genuinely surprised at the venom in Aziraphale’s voice. “Hey, it’s alright,” he said, placatingly. “They’ll lose interest soon enough.”

“Eleven months ago would have been soon enough.” Aziraphale sighed, deflating somewhat. His gaze drifted to somewhere in the middle distance. “They never used to pay this much attention,” he said, almost to himself. “Bloody Augustine…”

Poor angel, thought Crowley. He’d been run off his feet ever since the Anglo-Saxons had caught the Christianity bug last century. Crowley couldn’t see what all the fuss was about - there was nothing particularly interesting about these soggy little islands, soaking in the north Atlantic. But someone had a plan, and damned if they weren’t going to stick to it.

“Aziraphale,” he said gently, catching the angel’s attention. “You need a break. Come on.”

Aziraphale sighed once more, but Crowley already knew he’d won. “I really oughtn’t…”

“Look. There’s a monastery about an hour’s ride east of here. Why don’t you come and cool down for a bit, have some food-” At this, Aziraphale brightened a little. Crowley went on. “Then when you’ve had a rest you can head over there instead and spread a little divine inspiration to people who’ll make the most of it.”

“I suppose,” said Aziraphale, though he sounded more defeated than ever.

“I hear they’ve got some wonderful manuscripts in their library,” Crowley said.

“…really?”

“Oh yeah. Illuminations like you wouldn’t believe.” Indeed, the monastery’s librarian was just now discovering said manuscripts, which were themselves rather surprised by their sudden appearance. “Besides,” Crowley continued, “it was founded by the king’s cousin. So you know they’ve got the very best of sacramental wine.”

Aziraphale snorted. “You’re not supposed to drink sacramental wine for fun, Crowley.”

“I like it. Nice and spicy.”

“It’s not supposed to be- Oh, you’re ridiculous!” He gave one last token roll of his eyes, then threw up his hands in defeat. “Alright. You win. Though you really didn’t need to lay _all_ my weaknesses out in front of me like that.”

“Sorry,” said Crowley, grinning.

“So you should be. You’re horrible to me.”

Crowley beamed, full of bubbling warmth. He watched as Aziraphale swung himself down from the horse with remarkable grace. He did not blush as he watched, but only because he gave his cheeks a stern internal monologue advising against it.[3]

Back on solid ground, Aziraphale set about loosening straps and undoing buckles. He glanced over his shoulder at Crowley, watching from the safety of his tree.

“You could help,” said Aziraphale pointedly.

Crowley looked dubiously at the mare, standing placidly while Aziraphale worked, flicking her tail. When he didn’t answer, Aziraphale looked round at him properly, and upon seeing the direction of Crowley’s gaze he gave a bark of laughter.

“You can’t be serious! You’re scared of Moo?”

"Moo?! Your horse’s name is _Moo_?”

Aziraphale smiled, apparently seeing nothing wrong with the moniker. He patted the alleged Moo on the shoulder, earning himself a snuffle of soft, horsey nose against the side of his head.

“She looks like a Moo,” Aziraphale said fondly.

“She looks like a big bitey idiot,” said Crowley, far less fondly.

“I admit, she’s not the sharpest tool in the shed,” Aziraphale confessed. This seemed an understatement to Crowley. The longer he looked at ‘Moo’, the more convinced he was there was nothing between her flicky white ears more substantial than lint. “She’s very good though. Aren’t you, my dear?”

Crowley snorted. Then he let out a put-upon sigh. “I can, uh, you know…” He waved his hand meaningfully. “If you like.”

To his surprise - and yes, alright, a flash of annoyance at not being allowed to be useful - Aziraphale shook his head.

“Oh, don’t worry. I quite like it, if I’m honest. Makes me feel like I’m taking care of her.”

And he got to work, pulling off a pair of leather saddlebags and setting them on the ground before undoing the two girth straps and lifting the saddle down beside them. Her blanket came next, which he slung over his shoulder with an easy flick, before removing her bit to let her graze to her heart’s content. A kiss on the nose, a pat on the cheek, and he left her to wander with the confidence of someone who lives in a world where lost horses happen to other people. He slung the saddlebags over one shoulder, hoiked the saddle up into his arms and gave Crowley a brilliant smile.

“Righto!” he said brightly, as if he hadn’t just rendered parts of Crowley’s brain completely useless by this brazen display of competence and upper body strength. That saddle alone looked like it weighed more than Crowley did dripping wet, though you’d never know it, the way Aziraphale hauled it around.

Crowley slammed the door closed on that particular line of thought. He nodded back towards the river.

“This way,” he said, already setting off through the trees. “You know,” he said over his shoulder, “you’d be a lot cooler if you weren’t in that stupid get-up. What on earth are you expecting to happen to you out here?”

“I’m a knight,” Aziraphale protested. “Or, supposed to be one, anyway. I have to look the part.”

They broke out of the woods and back into glorious sunshine. Crowley hadn’t realised how much cooler it had been under the trees, and the contrast was delicious. He rolled his shoulders, enjoying the heat as behind him Aziraphale set down his burdens.

“If you weren’t wearing it though, nobody would know you were supposed to be a knight,” said Crowley. When Crowley turned back, he found Aziraphale pulling off his gloves with an expression of polite confusion on his slightly sweaty face. “I mean, if nobody knew you were supposed to be a knight then you wouldn’t have to look like one, would you? Don’t need to look the part if no-one knows what part you’re supposed to look.”

“The worrying thing is, I _do_ know what you mean. Lord knows what that says about me.”

Crowley laughed. “Here,” he said, wandering over. “I’ll squire for you.”

Before he could think it through and stop himself, Crowley pulled off Aziraphale’s chain mail hood, revealing a rather sweaty cloth cap covering the angel’s curls. He took that off too, and, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do, as if he did this all the time, he brushed his fingers through the white, sweat-curled hair.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t move away. “Aren’t you a little old to be a squire?”

Crowley tutted. “I’m younger than you. Arms up.”

He pulled off Aziraphale’s tabard, then the knee-length mail tunic he wore underneath. The shirt was heavy and he staggered slightly as he took its weight, though he covered it up with a thoroughly convincing swagger.

“Are you?” said Aziraphale as Crowley set the mail down beside the saddled and bit. “How do you know?”

Crowley frowned. Aziraphale’s chain mail chausses were held against his legs by a pair of garters just below each knee, and Crowley had to kneel to undo them each in turn.

“Well, we are, aren’t we. Demons, I mean.”

“Oh. I suppose.”

Crowley glanced up at him, tugging on the strings that tied the first chausse to Aziraphale’s gambeson, a thick jacket padded with horsehair.

“It’s not quite the same, though. You were an angel, before, I mean,” he clarified, lifting his foot to let Crowley slide the first chausse off and start work on the other.

He held onto Crowley’s shoulder to keep his balance, his palm hot and slightly damp on Crowley’s skin. Crowley concentrated on the next tie to keep his mind off it, and concentrated on the conversation to keep his mind off the fact that there was absolutely nothing about this outfit that Aziraphale couldn’t easily remove for himself, and they both knew it.

“Doesn’t really count, though, does it?” he said. “You don’t add nine months to someone’s age to account for their gestation.”

“Is that how you think of it?”

The question could have sounded accusing. In Aziraphale’s mouth, it felt honest, his natural curiosity coming through.

“Sort of.” Crowley set the second chausse down and stood, considering the question. “It doesn’t feel like it was me. I don’t really remember it very well…”

He trailed off, substituting words with a shrug. Aziraphale nodded as if he understood, and who knows - perhaps he did.

After a thoughtful pause, Aziraphale laughed softly. “I can’t imagine you in Heaven,” he admitted.

“Oh, angel. You say the sweetest things.”

Aziraphale’s gambeson was laced to the chin. No wonder he’d been feeling the heat, bundled up like this. Crowley’s long fingers started undoing the spiral lacing up the gambeson’s front. He kept expecting Aziraphale to push him away, to laugh him off and insist on doing it himself. But he didn’t. He just stood there, arms by his side, mildly watching Crowley work.

“They really won’t let you miracle anything?” said Crowley after a moment’s quiet. “Not even to cool yourself down?”

Aziraphale pulled a face. “They would,” he admitted. “But if it’s not obviously work related, I’d probably have to answer for it. And I don’t much fancy explaining the concept of perspiration to Gabriel.”

Crowley smiled, remembering what Aziraphale had told him about the archangel. “Yes, I see your point,” he agreed.

He tugged the front of the gambeson open, and was hit by a sudden blast of super-heated air, trapped between the angel’s body and the jacket’s padding. It brought with it the smell of a hot, living body, sweat-slick and sultry. Crowley froze, lips parted.

“I… I’m sorry,” Aziraphale started, mistaking the expression on Crowley’s face.

“No,” said Crowley, too quickly. “No, it’s fine. It’s, um. It’s fine. Just a body, you know. Bodies doing body things.”

His face burned, and he scrabbled to stop himself from thinking about Aziraphale’s body and the things it might do. He wanted to crawl inside Aziraphale’s gambeson, press his face against all the hot and humid parts of him, breathe in that heady, musky smell until he was drunk on it.

Before he combusted on the spot, he moved behind Aziraphale, ostensibly to take his jacket. He held the collar as Aziraphale pulled his arms loose, peeling free to reveal a broad, solid back beneath a shirt that clung, translucent, to wet patches where Aziraphale had sweated into it.

That was _enough_ , Crowley told himself firmly. He was thousands of years old, for pity’s sake, and a demon to boot. He’d seen every kind of body imaginable, in every kind of situation imaginable, and a number that he hadn’t imagined possible until the humans had gone ahead and done it anyway. He was better than this.

He chucked the gambeson down on the pile of clothes and moved round to Aziraphale’s front once more. Aziraphale wore a pair of woollen hose, separate legs tied onto the drawstring of his linen braies, loose shorts that served as underwear. Crowley dropped to his knees again to undo the ties, and regretted it immediately.

Not better! _Not better!_ A blaring alarm rang in his head. Aziraphale’s white braies were baggy and bunched where they were tucked into his hose, revealing nothing. But somehow that was worse. There was nothing between Crowley and what lay behind that thin layer of linen but his imagination…

His fingers slipped on the ties. His whole head felt like he’d been dangled over hot coals, this was stupid, he was being so _stupid_ -

Sudden weight on the back of his head. Aziraphale’s hand, soft and steady, resting in Crowley’s hair like it was the most natural place in the world for it to be. And somehow - he’d say ‘miraculously’, but he knew better - but somehow, he wasn’t panicking any more. The weight grounded him, held him in the moment long enough to breathe.

“It’s nice,” came Aziraphale’s voice from strangely far away.

Crowley risked a look upwards. “Huh?”

“Your hair,” Aziraphale clarified. “It’s nice like this. Suits you.”

Crowley’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips. “Thanks,” he said, as much for the distraction as the compliment.

He took a second longer just to breathe. How Aziraphale had known his touch would help, Crowley wasn’t sure. He supposed you weren’t friends with someone for 4,000 years and counting without picking up a few things. The thought made him weirdly pleased - like Aziraphale had been collecting little bits of him over the years and squirrelling them away inside him.

Feeling significantly better - or at least like he wasn’t going to spontaneously discorporate any time soon - Crowley undid the ties of Aziraphale’s hose and rolled the first leg down. Aziraphale sighed with relief as the comparatively cool air hit his over-heated skin.

“Oh, that’s better…”

The sound made Crowley’s stomach flip gently, but no more than he risked every time he had a meal with Aziraphale and had to listen to every moan and gasp of delight as the angel ate.[4] The second hose went the way of the first, and then Aziraphale was down to his shirt and braies, all white linen and pink skin.

Crowley stood, not sure what to do with his hands. He cast about for something to say. “Well. Bit cooler now?”

Aziraphale blinked. He looked distinctly flushed, as if the last ten minutes had done nothing at all to reduce his temperature. His mouth moved slightly, forming words abandoned as soon as they arrived.

And then his eyes met Crowley’s and, in a rare moment of psychic synchronicity, they both knew _exactly_ what the other was thinking. They stared at each other. And then, Aziraphale snorted.

Crowley’s smile blew through him like a sunbeam. The moment disintegrated into laughter, both of them collapsing into giggles as the absurdity of the situation hit them. Aziraphale pushed Crowley in the shoulder, an attempt at rebuke.

“Oh, give over!” he laughed.

“I didn’t say anything!” said Crowley, holding up his hands in defence. He wiped his eyes, shoulders still shaking. “That was… Oh, fuck, that was hardly even _half_ my fault.”

Normality asserted itself, the world turned right side up once more. Whatever this was between them, it wasn’t going to show its face in the bright daylight of a summer afternoon. A day like this called for friendship, and laughter, and nothing like as heavy as _that_ conversation seemed sure to be.

Crowley shook his head, still smiling, and wandered back to his earlier seat on the grass. He sprawled himself out, reaching for his loop of string.

“I think I’ll have a swim,” said Aziraphale, the smile lingering in his voice.

“Good idea,” said Crowley, attention on the string figure he was making. A turtle, he decided, picking up a strand with the flick of his fingertip.

He glanced up when Aziraphale wandered into his line of sight, stepping cautious to the water’s edge. Aziraphale was naked, and for a brief moment, Crowley’s stomach jumped at the sight. But almost immediately, centuries - millennia, even - of social habit took over, and the picture resolved itself into one of perfect innocence.

It really was just a body, no more sexual than the countless other bodies he’d seen over the years, swimming or washing clothes or simply bound by different ideas of what modesty meant, and why it mattered. He was only wearing his braies, after all, low on his hips and loosely tied under each knee. The fact the body in question was Aziraphale’s changed nothing, save perhaps a little more aesthetic appreciation on Crowley’s part.

Aziraphale flinched as he dipped his feet. “It’s cold!” he squeaked.

“Of course it’s cold, you balloon,” said Crowley. “This is Ireland - the Aegean it ain’t.”

He turned back to his string figure, shaking his head at the noises Aziraphale continued to make with every step deeper into the water. A few flicks of his fingers, and the figure took shape between his hands.

It would be generous to say it looked much like a turtle. Mostly it looked like a deal of string, albeit intricately woven. Whoever invented string figures, Crowley decided, was the same kind of wishful thinker who made up constellations. It never ceased to amuse him to hear the stories humans would make up about scatterings of stars he knew for a fact were entirely random.[5]

He let his hands fall in his lap and frowned in Aziraphale’s direction. The angel was in up to his thighs, hands bunched near his ears, dithering.

“Angel,” said Crowley warningly, “if you don’t stop fussing, I will push you in.”

Aziraphale shot him a glare. “Don’t you dare! Oh, I _hate_ this bit.”

“You’d be better off jumping straight in,” Crowley pointed out. “Get it over and done with.”

“I kno-o-ow,” Aziraphale whined, flapping his hands and bouncing on his toes. “I’m just trying to work myself up to it.”

“That’s the whole point! You don’t ‘work up to it’ - you jump in before you’ve had time to thi- Oh, bloody hell!”

With a crash, a shriek, and a great deal of frantic splashing, Aziraphale threw himself into the deep water with all the dignity of a pot plant falling off a shelf. Still, he was in - gasping and flapping his arms and doing some remarkable verbal gymnastics to keep from swearing, but undeniably in.

Crowley laughed and laughed. The afternoon took on a giddy, giggling mood as Aziraphale splashed about, enjoying himself so much that Crowley couldn’t help enjoying it too. He loved this side of Aziraphale, the slightly mad, playful silliness that only came out when the angel was utterly relaxed. ‘Forgetting himself’ was the obvious phrase, but that wasn’t it at all. It was closer to remembering - remembering who he was underneath the pressure and expectation, the anxiety, the obligation.

“Are you sure you won’t come in?” Aziraphale called.

He was floating on his back, his tummy and face all Crowley could see poking out of the dark water. The current of the river span him slowly round as Crowley looked on with undisguised affection. And really, no jury in the world would have convicted him.

“No fear,” he called back. “I’d rather stay out here, where it’s warm.”

“It’s wonderful once you get used it,” said Aziraphale, feelingly. “Such a relief after all that stickiness.”

“You forget, I wasn’t trotting about like an idiot in full chain mail. The stickiness was all yours.”

Aziraphale conceded the point, and got back to the very important business of blowing bubbles in the water below his chin.

As Aziraphale swam - or floated, as his inclination took him - Crowley kept himself entertained making string figures and shouting out riddles from the riverbank. They never took Aziraphale long to solve, but there was a pleasant rhythm in the back and forth. Crowley found himself relaxing, knots loosening inside him that he hadn’t even known were there.

“Tell me,” he called, in the slightly formal tone of recitation, “what is it that fills the sky and the whole earth and tears up new shoots, and shakes all foundations, but cannot be seen by eyes or touched by hands?”

Aziraphale sploshed thoughtfully. “The wind?”

Crowley tutted. “It’s cheating if you’ve heard it before.”

“I haven’t! It’s just, whenever they say something along the lines of ‘causes dreadful damage but can’t be seen or touched’, the answer’s always either the wind or time.”

“Oh. Suppose. Alright then - I’m soft as wool, soft as bog, when I swell up, I’m like a frog. I grow in water where I plunge…”

“You are a sponge,” Aziraphale finished easily. He swam to the bank and started to climb out, water sheeting off him. “These are too easy,” he complained.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible,” he grumbled.

Aziraphale fished his discarded shirt up from the grass and used it to towel off the worst of the water. “Don’t you know any tricky ones? I met a young man called Aldhelm back in Wessex who knew all sorts of good ones.”

“Why don’t you bugger off and play with Aldhelm then?” Crowley shot back.

Aziraphale just laughed. He pulled on his braies and flopped down on the grass beside Crowley, drying his hair with his shirt and leaving its curls more unruly than ever.

“I’ve got one for you,” he said cheerfully.

Crowley raised an eyebrow, not looking up from his latest string figure - ‘the spiderweb’, though Crowley rather felt this name could reasonably be applied to any string figure he’d ever seen.

When Aziraphale didn’t continue, he looked up. There was a glimmer of something in Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked Crowley over thoughtfully as he spoke.

“What’s, um… white. And a little bit yellow. And red all over.”

Crowley frowned. He tried to follow Aziraphale’s line of sight, but all he could see was himself. His frowned deepened, suspicion growing.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. Aziraphale smiled.

“A demon with sunburn.”

Crowley snorted, but he couldn’t help the pleased blush Aziraphale’s words - and the careful attention they betrayed. Aziraphale’s smile only widened at the sight.

“It’s not much,” he said, reassuringly. “Just a little over here.”

He reached out, and Crowley found himself rooted to the spot as the very tips of Aziraphale’s fingers brushed across the bridge of his nose and over the tops of each of his cheeks in turn.

“It suits you,” said Aziraphale, his voice soft but with an underlying note of teasing.

Crowley face only grew hotter. He glared, caught between cringing away from the compliment and being absurdly, soaringly pleased with it. “Stop that,” he said, not even close to menacing.

“Stop what?” said Aziraphale innocently. “I just think you look rather nice today.”

At that, Crowley huffed, though whether it was a laugh or a noise of disbelief, it was hard to say. He squinted up at the sky, resolutely ignoring the waves of fondness rolling towards him from Aziraphale’s direction.

“About two o’clock, I think,” he said, as if Aziraphale had asked. “Time for something to eat.”

“Whatever you like,” came Aziraphale’s answer, and Crowley ignored too the note of self-satisfaction in it.

Crowley clicked his fingers. A campfire flared up on the bank beside him, making Aziraphale jump. Which he deserved, for being a bastard.

“Got anything in those saddlebags of yours?” he said over his shoulder, already rummaging in a bag for some cooking equipment.

Aziraphale made a thoughtful sound. “Bit of bread,” he said doubtfully. “Apples. I wasn’t planning on having anything until dinner at Bealach Féich.”

“Ah, bring it over. The bread’ll go well with the fish.”

“Fish?” Aziraphale’s voice was bright and hopeful. Crowley lifted a cast iron skillet out of one of his bags, spinning it by the handle and raising his eyebrows.

“Unless you don’t want any?”

Aziraphale didn’t need threatening twice. He fairly bounced over to his saddlebags, bringing forth half a loaf of crusty sourdough, a couple of apples each, and a leather flask.

“It’s apple juice,” he said, seeing Crowley’s eyes alight on the flask.

“Doesn’t have to be,” Crowley pointed out. He’d convinced the fire to burn down in record time and was heating the skillet on the hot ashes.

Aziraphale pulled a face. “It’s very _good_ apple juice.”

“Alright, suit yourself. Apple juice it is, and apple juice it shall remain.”

He held his hand over the skillet, testing its heat. Satisfied, he took butter from a clay pot[6] and added it to the pan with a dash of oil, tipping the pan first one way, then the next, to get an even coverage.

He ran an appraising eye over Aziraphale. “Do you know what sorrel looks like?”

“Of course I know what sorrel looks like,” Aziraphale pouted. “I’m not a complete dolt.”

“Alright then. Can you go and pick some? Don’t need much, just a few leaves.”

Aziraphale pulled a face, eyeing the shady woods. But before he could complain about being sent out of the sunshine, Crowley lifted a parcel wrapped in beeswax-infused linen out of his bag. He pulled the wrapper open to reveal thick, pink slabs of salmon, so fresh it was a wonder they weren’t still wriggling. Aziraphale’s mouth fell open.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, they look delicious.”

“Skin on. Fried in butter. Little drizzle of sorrel sauce over the top…”

“Alright, alright, I’m going! God, you’re impossible.”

“I’m cooking you lunch!”

Aziraphale didn’t deign to reply. The butter and oil heated up to a bubbly froth, and Crowley added a generous pinch of salt and pepper - this last an outlandish luxury in this part of the world, where the surrounding ocean provided plenty of salt but resolutely refused to wash any peppercorns up on its shores. He was laying the first salmon steak down in the mixture when Aziraphale came back out of the woods clutching a handful of green leaves.

Crowley laid the fish out in the pan, taking care as the oil and butter popped and hissed with each addition. Then he reached for a mortar and pestle, and was about to hand them to Aziraphale when he stopped short.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes.”

“You said you knew what sorrel looked like.”

“I do! Look. Sorrel.”

He held out his leaves for Crowley’s inspection. Crowley picked out three of the leaves and held them up.

“These,” he said, “are sorrel.” He added them to the mortar before pointing to the other leaves Aziraphale had collected. “Those are lords-and-ladies. If you eat those, your throat will swell up on the inside, and you will die.”

“Hm. Well. I probably wouldn’t, but I see your point.”

“Just promise me you’ll leave the foraging to someone else, in the future.”

“You asked for sorrel and sorrel I have brought. I just… brought a little something extra, too.”

Crowley snorted. Aziraphale took up the mortar and pestle and for a time the only sound was the hiss of frying and the quiet thunk of stone on stone.

“Do you forage a lot, here?” said Aziraphale.

Something in his tone of voice made Crowley look up. Aziraphale’s expression was one of a person studiously pretending not to be talking around a sensitive subject. He caught Crowley’s questioning look and shrugged slightly.

“The villagers said the woods have been haunted since April. That’s… quite a while.”

Crowley sighed. He spooned butter and oil over the fish, jiggling the pan to keep them from sticking. He considered telling Aziraphale to bugger off, or simply ignoring the question implicit in his statement. Aziraphale would drop the issue if he did, he knew. But to his surprise, he found he wanted to explain.

“I was living in Dumnonia,” he said, naming the jutting corner of Britain’s south west that would one day become Devon and Cornwall.

Aziraphale’s pestle hesitated in mid air. “Oh,” he said, and Crowley knew he understood. Still, he wanted to say it aloud - something about witness, something about memory.

“Raid after raid,” he said bitterly. “Your man Cenwahl is… fucking relentless.”

“He’s not my man.”

“No? You were in Wessex, weren’t you?”

“I’ve been all over,” said Aziraphale, his voice carefully level. Crowley scoffed.

“Yes, of course you have. Wherever there’s a conqueror, there’s an angel on his shoulder, eh?”

Aziraphale didn’t even sound angry when he answered. “That’s not fair,” he said in the same even tone. “I know you’re upset, but that’s no excuse to be rude to me.”

It would have been easier if he’d been angry. Crowley’s shoulders slumped, the fight gone out of him. “I know,” he said, not looking up from the skillet. “I just… want to be rude to _someone_.”

“I know you do,” said Aziraphale with impossible kindness.

Crowley cleared his throat, sitting back from the heat of the fire. “Well. Anyway. After the last push from Wessex, I came here.”

He tried not to think about what that push had entailed - how the fist of the Anglo Saxon king had fallen on the Britons with brutal, bloody efficiency.

“I was working for a bit when I first got here,” he continued, “and then I just thought… Time for a holiday. Somewhere quiet. No work. No disturbances.”

“Mm. Sorry to interrupt,” said Aziraphale, but he was smiling as he said it.

It made Crowley laugh - a slight thing, more breath than humour, but enough to break the tension. He knew he should say something to shrug the moment away, some quick quip to lighten the mood. But he didn’t have the energy, and besides, Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind. Instead, they sat quietly as the fish cooked, comfortable in each other’s company.

Soon enough, Crowley served up the salmon on a pair of wooden plates, squeezing the pulped sorrel through a small square of cloth to drizzle the tangy, sharp sauce over the pink fish. A chunk of bread each - complete with a healthy spread of well-behaved butter - and the meal was complete.

Aziraphale’s obvious delight at the food was more than enough to banish the last of Crowley’s bad feeling. It was always a joy to see Aziraphale eat - each mouthful carefully considered, from the first bite of fish to the last mopping up of sauce with bread. But it was a special pleasure to actually have _made_ the meal, and made all the more special by how rarely Crowley got the opportunity to indulge in it.

Finally, Aziraphale set his plate down with a happy sigh. He looked utterly content, eyes closed as he chewed the last of his bread. Crowley shamelessly took the opportunity to stare at him, drinking him in from the flick of his nose, over the thick, curly white hair that spilled over his chest and the soft swell of his stomach, down over spreading thighs and fluffy shins to the tips of his happily wiggling toes. Crowley let out a dog-sigh of his own. Contentment was infectious, it seemed.

He clicked his fingers to quench the fire - it was hot enough without keeping that around any longer than absolutely necessary. Aziraphale passed him the leather flask and he took a swig of apple juice. He had to admit, it really was very good - sharp and fresh, the perfect counterpoint to the heat of the day.

Beside him, Aziraphale picked up Crowley's loop of string from where it had lain, discarded and largely forgotten, in the grass.

“I can make a star,” he said excitedly. “Do you want to see?”

Crowley smiled, lying back with his head on his hands, eyes falling closed. “Sure,” he drawled.

The quiet sounds of movement, punctuated by the odd hum of concentration as Aziraphale tried to remember the proper sequence of moves. Finally, a triumphant, “Aha!”

Crowley cracked open one eye. Aziraphale beamed down at him, holding out his hands to present the charming, slightly wonky, five-pointed star he had stretched between his fingers.

“Well done.”

Aziraphale’s smile widened. “Thank you,” he said, proudly. He pulled the string off his fingers and held it out to Crowley. “Go on. Show me one of your clever ones.”

“They’re not clever,” Crowley grumbled, going up on his elbows to take the string and loop it into the opening position. “It’s just a matter of learning how to do them.”

“So’s everything ‘just a matter of learning how’. Everything from string figures to oil painting to philosophy. It’s all just practice, isn’t it?”

Crowley was not sure he agreed, but he didn’t bother to say so. He held out his hands, the string twisted around itself in a clumpy mess between his palms.

“You’ll like this,” he said, unable to keep a note of excitement from his voice.

Slowly, he began to widen the space between his hands. As he moved, the string twisted, untwisted, sprung loose, and eventually resolved itself into a perfectly symmetrical pattern of geometric shapes.

Aziraphale threw up his hands in delight. “Oh! Oh, you see? I _told_ you it was clever! Well done.”

Crowley allowed himself a flush of pleasure at the praise. He shook the string loose and immediately set about working it into the opening pattern for a game of cat’s cradle.

“Even I know this one,” said Aziraphale. He scooted a little closer on the grass, and deftly moved the pattern into the next position, taking the string onto his own hands.

Crowley sat up properly, unable to play comfortably lying down. He didn’t mind. Aziraphale was so close, he could smell the river water on his skin, could feel the tickle of his leg hair where their knees almost touched. 

It was a simple, looping game, and one they’d both learnt when the world was very young indeed. There was a gratifying rhythm to the way the right moves in the right order always resulted in the same patterns, shifting from one to the other to the next and eventually back around again to the start.

As they played, their hands brushed against each other, breath-brief flashes of skin against skin. It had the same effect as Aziraphale’s touch earlier, grounding Crowley in the moment, keeping him from fretting about what came next or what his next move might be. It would just be one step in front of the other, he realised, in a dim, back-of-the-head sort of thought. No point worrying about it.

Eventually, Aziraphale fluffed a move, the string slipping off his finger and breaking the pattern.

“Oh, crumbs. Sorry.”

He shook his hands loose, letting the string fall to the grass between them. Then he picked it up and wrapped it around his fingers, making a tidy bundle. The mood seemed to have broken. Aziraphale’s mouth opened, and Crowley knew he was going to say something dreadful about the time and ‘getting late’ and ‘really should be going’.

“We can play again,” Crowley said in a rush. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Or, uh. Something else? Probably got some knucklebones somewhere, if you like?”

He cringed slightly at the keenness in his voice. He didn’t quite sound desperate, but it wasn’t far off. To his endless gratitude, Aziraphale took the opportunity to make fun of him rather than anything so awful as being kind.

“Are you sure I wouldn’t be cramping your style?” he said teasingly. “You’ve got the brooding loner down to a T.”

“You can fuck off any time you like,” Crowley shot back. “Just assumed you’d jump at an excuse to keep shirking.”

“Shirking? That’s rich. I’m not the one who’s been living in the woods for four months. I’ve got a fidhcheall board in my bag, if you fancy?”

“I don’t think I know fidhcheall. And it’s only been three months - three and a half, tops.”

Aziraphale scoffed. He took an apple from the little pile where he’d left them and bit into it, holding it in his teeth as he got to his feet. Crowley watched him rummaging in his saddlebags for the game pieces, chomping on his apple at intervals, and felt very known, and very grateful.

It turned out he did know fidhcheall after all, though by a different name.

“Oh, gwyddbwyll!” he exclaimed, when Aziraphale rolled out the cloth ‘board’.

“Bless you.”

“Don’t you dare. No, that’s what they call it in Wales. Same name in Dumnonia, or near enough - gwydhbol, they call it there.”

Aziraphale made an interested noise, setting carved stone pieces onto their places on the board. It was a lovely set, the cloth finely embroidered in the twisting, spiralling style favoured on the island. These patterns bordered a grid with points marked at the intersection of each line, and a coloured ring around each corner and another ring in the centre. Into this centre ring, Aziraphale placed the largest piece - the king.

“Guards or soldiers?” he asked.

“Soldiers,” said Crowley, like it was obvious. Aziraphale took the first move, and the game began.

“I don’t mean this in a rude way,” Aziraphale said after a moment.

“Oh, go on,” said Crowley, grinning. He made his move, playing as the soldiers attacking Aziraphale’s king and defenders. “This should be good - you always have the best backhanded compliments.”

“This one isn’t even a compliment, I’m afraid. It’s just I’ve never thought you had much of an ear for languages.”

“I know as many languages as you,” Crowley countered. “More, if you count the ones I can only swear in. Besides, these ones are easy - they’re all the same, give or take a fricative.”

“A _what_?”

“Ha!” said Crowley, triumphant. “Who’s got a head for languages now?”

They played for almost an hour, with long, thoughtful pauses between their moves. Aziraphale’s goal was to get his king, with the help of his guard pieces, out from the centre of the board to one of its four corners. Meanwhile, Crowley was trying to surround the king on four sides with his own pieces - soldiers, in the story of the game.

It was a strategy game, and admittedly, long-term planning was not exactly either of their strong suits. But in this they were at least well matched. Even lacking any real skill at the game itself, they knew each other well enough to be able to anticipate one another’s moves with alarming accuracy, and the game was close - if not elegant - to the end. But finally, Aziraphale’s king squeaked past Crowley’s soldiers by a hair’s breadth, making it safely to one of the safe corner spaces.

Crowley threw up his hands. “Another crushing blow by the royalist scourge!”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” said Aziraphale, dropping game pieces into a drawstring bag with a series of satisfying clicks. “Now. I really must be going.”

“Yes, those manuscripts won’t read themselves.”

Aziraphale smiled, but did not rise to the bait. He got to his feet and stowed the game away again. He’d left his shirt drying in the sun after its brief use as a makeshift towel. He pulled it on again now, and sat on the grass to pull on his hose.

Crowley saw him look mournfully at the pile of chain mail and padded armour he’d been so happily doing without all afternoon. He could practically see Aziraphale’s thought process, his expressive face was so easy to read. As such, he was ready when Aziraphale turned to him with wide, sad eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve got you,” he tutted.

He clicked his fingers, transforming the heavy armour into a lightly woven tunic, a pair of soft leather shoes, and a soft woollen cloak, just in case - this was Ireland, after all. Who knew what tomorrow’s weather would bring.

A beaming, sunshine smile lit Aziraphale’s face. “Thank you so much!” he said, and Crowley waved the thanks away looking totally casual and not at all thrilled.

Aziraphale held the tunic up to his chest. It was red, embroidered at wrist, neck and hem in black and gold. “Dressing me in your colours, dear?”

“Shut up,” Crowley shot back, “unless you want to ride back to the village in your underwear.”

Aziraphale laughed, pulling the tunic on over his head. Crowley pretended not to notice Aziraphale giving his sleeve a surreptitious sniff, and certainly did not see the soft smile the scent apparently warranted.

Once he was dressed, Crowley walked Aziraphale back out to the road. Aziraphale whistled for Moo, who came plodding out of the woods after barely a minute’s wait. Crowley hung back once more as Aziraphale re-tacked her, leaning on a tree, not quite sure what to do with himself.

“I’m going to be in Northumberland in the autumn,” he blurted.

Aziraphale frowned, pulling a strap tight on Moo’s harness. “Not for the Synod?” he said cautiously.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I was wondering if you’d like to-”

“What are _you_ going to the Synod of Whitby for?” Aziraphale interrupted.

“Same thing I’m usually going somewhere for - free food.”

His horse refitted to his satisfaction, Aziraphale turned to fix Crowley with a suspicious look. “Which side are you supporting?”

Crowley grinned. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue, but gave up almost immediately. He sighed, defeated.

“I’ll see you there, then,” he said morosely.

“Way to make a guy feel welcome, angel.”

“No, I meant-”

“I know what you meant. I’ll see you there.”

There was a pause. There seemed too much space between them to cross comfortably. Crowley was suddenly very aware of being the only half of the conversation still in his underwear. For a horrible moment it looked like Aziraphale might just get up in the saddle and ride off without another word. Then, mercifully, he smiled.

“Goodbye,” he said, taking a step forwards, obviously expecting an embrace.

Crowley stepped forwards too, concentrating on not rushing. He leant in, ready to kiss Aziraphale goodbye as he had a thousand times before - when Aziraphale’s head twitched. Crowley froze.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale said quickly. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You bloody did. You were going to give me your cheek!”

“I wasn’t! Well, I- I mean, maybe-”

Crowley was aghast. “I can’t believe you! What am I, your subordinate now? I was only joking with that squire stuff, you know.”

“You wouldn’t let a squire kiss you on the cheek,” said Aziraphale haughtily, and then seemed to realise his mistake. “No, Crowley-”

“Oh, ho! Then tell me, Good Sir Fell, whereabouts upon your sacred body am I fit to kiss? Your delicate hand? Your perfumed feet? Your hairy-”

“Don’t be horrible!” Aziraphale laughed, pushing Crowley in the shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that, I only meant-”

“I know very well what you meant. You meant to give me your cheek, like you’re above me.”

“Well, so I am above you!” Aziraphale shot back, eyes bright with laughter. “Heaven _is_ above Hell, quite famously so.”

Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale’s waist, pulling him closer. “But we’re not in Heaven,” he pointed out. Closer still, Aziraphale warm and heavy under his hand. “We’re right here on earth - equals.”

He was close enough now that the front of Aziraphale’s tunic brushed his belly. Aziraphale’s hands had found his hips, though he hadn’t managed to make eye contact for a while. When Crowley spoke, his voice was no louder than it had to be in the small space between them.

“Kiss me,” he said.

Finally, Aziraphale’s eyes found his. “As an equal?” he breathed.

Crowley couldn’t help smiling. He nudged the tip of Aziraphale’s nose with his own. “As friends.”

Aziraphale took a breath, seemed almost about to argue - and then sighed, eyes slipping shut. Crowley kissed him, pressing their mouths together in something almost chaste - save for the heat where their lips met, not quite closed, and for the press of Aziraphale’s fingers in Crowley’s hips, pulling him closer. Not quite believing he dared, Crowley moved his mouth, gently tipping the kiss to the very edge of plausible deniability.

A noise broke through the quiet. Crowley pulled back, astonished.

“What was that?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Don’t know. Nothing. Didn’t hear anything.”

A laugh started to rise in Crowley’s chest. “Aziraphale… Did you-?”

“No! It wasn’t me. Whatever it was, which I didn’t hear anyway because it didn’t-”

Crowley burst out laughing, as much at the improbable colour Aziraphale’s face had turned as anything else. Aziraphale pulled away from him, rushing to where Moo stood, implacable.

“You’re a beast!”

“ _I’m_ a beast? I’m not the one moaning like a tupenny whore!”

Aziraphale tried to climb into the saddle and didn’t quite manage. “It wasn’t a moan!”

“No,” Crowley said gleefully. “More of a sort of throbbing groan, really.”

Finally, Aziraphale got himself into the saddle. “I hate you,” he said. “I’m leaving.”

“Or a sort of lusty whimper, perhaps?”

With a thoroughly unangelic hand gesture, Aziraphale wheeled Moo around and set off down the road. After a few metres, he pulled her round again, looking somehow at once sheepish and furious.

“Monastery’s that way,” said Crowley, pointing in the opposite direction to the one Aziraphale had started down. “Place called Baile Mhic Robhartaigh. Ask at Baile an tSratha, they’ll put you on your way.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale grudgingly, setting Moo walking in the right direction.

“Pardon?”

“I said, thank you,” he repeated, but Crowley tugged at his ear, pulling a face.

“Sorry, I, uh, I can’t hear you very well. I think my eardrum just got blown out by some kind-”

“I _hate_ you.”

“-seismic groan of passion!”

Crowley collapsed into peals of laughter, only laughing harder when Aziraphale urged Moo into a jog, muttering darkly about drowning being a horrible way to be discorporated.

“See you in Whitby, angel!” Crowley called, still laughing, to Aziraphale’s rapidly retreating back.

“Not if I see you first!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 Not officially, of course. Hell didn’t go in for such namby-pamby concepts as weekends and annual leave. Neither did Heaven, on the grounds that, ‘If you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in you life!!!’ Both chalked up the invention of unionisation as a regrettable success for the opposition.
> 
> 2 Besides, Aziraphale had the habit of getting caught up in whatever it was they were talking about, and completely forgetting he was supposed to be in a snit. Crowley never saw any reason to remind him.
> 
> 3 His ears, unfortunately, did not get the memo. Much to Aziraphale’s delight, Crowley never discovered just how expressive his ears could be. If he had, he might never have let them out in public again.
> 
> 4 Knowing he’d introduced Aziraphale to that particular pleasure only left him feeling more conflicted. Was this a gift or a curse from his past self? Should he be proud? Annoyed? Something else entirely? Eventually he settled for ‘frustrated’, covering as it did a multitude of sins.
> 
> 5 There was, however, a certain point in a dwarf galaxy tucked away at the edge of things which, when viewed from a particular angle, bore an unmistakable resemblance to an enormous phallus. Its existence was known to one inhabitant of the universe, who still laughed about it whenever he remembered it was there, and one inhabitant beyond the universe, who keeps Her opinion on this, like so many things, to Herself.
> 
> 6 It was _very_ good butter, both in terms of quality and behaviour. It knew better, for example, than to try and melt in Crowley’s bag, whatever the weather might suggest.


	5. 1168 CE - Shatranj

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes native, settling into life at the Toledo School of Translators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kapow! kaboom! kowalski! this chapter has taken FOREVER to write but it's here now and that's what matters!
> 
> now, i have a confession to make, i actually made up one of the games in this - alniqash is based on the radio programme 'just a minute' but adapted for brainy medieval nerds, and the name means 'debate' in arabic.
> 
> shatranj, on the other hand, was the very real precursor to modern chess, which first gained popularity in europe after its introduction through medieval spain. it came to the middle east via india. the rules have changed a little, and the names of the pieces, but overall i think it's pretty similar to the modern game.
> 
> i spy is also real.
> 
> real, too, is the name of aziraphale's hot translator bf - abraham ibn daud was a real historical figure, who i hope is chill with me turning him into a sexy bear nerd. i mean, who wouldnt be?? the names of abraham's friends are from a couple of articles on medieval names in al-andalus, including the translation of Idlāl, which apparently can also mean "to lead astray"? idk if you speak arabic please tell me your thoughts haha
> 
> thanks again to mortifyingideal for their impeccable vibe checking skills, if u hate this chapter please address ur concerns to them.
> 
> there is some canon-typical drinking in this chapter but no other cws. as always though if you think ive missed something, just give me a shout.
> 
> if youre enjoying yourself, or just want to complain abt them being called 'knights' instead of 'horsies', hmu on tumblr!

Aziraphale had been in Toledo for a little over six months now. He’d been in France before then, and the Holy Roman Empire before that, gradually moving his way west over Europe after a surprise posting in Georgia a few centuries back had pinged him unexpectedly further east than he’d been since the 400s.

He’d seen wonderful things, sailing over the Black Sea and meandering vaguely westward, until the cold got into his bones and he started south, thinking vaguely that he might make his way back to north Africa if his superiors didn’t see fit to send him somewhere else.

There was no point trying to spot a pattern in the wax and wane of Heaven’s attention. There were times when he received assignments and communications almost daily, interspersed with long periods of silence spanning centuries, millennia even - sometimes so long he almost started to worry something had gone wrong and he’d lost contact with Heaven somehow.[1]

This, it seemed, was one of those times. Heaven had grown disinterested, or distracted, or whatever it was that dragged their attention away from him, and seemed content to leave him to his own devices for the time being.

He’d heard of the School of Translators when it was founded, back in the 1120s. It had sounded fascinating - a mixture of Muslim, Jewish and Christian scholars working out of the cathedral to translate works of philosophy and science from Arabic to Latin or Greek, often with an initial translation to Castilian Spanish.

If Heaven had asked, Aziraphale would have said the translation efforts were a way to further human knowledge of creation; that a deeper understanding of the inner workings of the world could only serve to increase humans’ reverence for the infinite complexity of God’s work. But Heaven never asked.

The dull clang of the cathedral bell broke through the quiet, marking the hour. Aziraphale started at the sound, though he was the only person in the library who did. He’d lost track of time, he realised with a guilty lurch.

He supposed to be meeting with a colleague of his, a Jewish scholar named Abraham ibn Daud. He’d invited Aziraphale to meet with him that afternoon to discuss the finer points of a copy of al-Farabi’s _Meanings of the Intellect_ that Aziraphale was working on - a welcome assistance since Aziraphale’s Castilian was not quite up to standard yet. And now, Aziraphale was running late.

With one last regretful look at the bookshelf, he slipped out of the library and into the cool, stone corridors of the cathedral’s labyrinthine back rooms. A set of creaking, rug-lined stairs led to the private studies for non-Christian translators like himself and Abraham. Most of the Christian translators were also monks, and had their own cells in the residential quarters of the cathedral.

Aziraphale hurried down the corridor to Abraham’s door, as much to get out of the chill as to make up for his tardiness. Winter in Toledo was mild compared to the other places Aziraphale had lived, but that didn’t mean he wanted to linger in an unheated stone hallway any longer than he had to.

Abraham's door was one of a number that lined the corridor, all identical dark wood. He knocked, and heard a fumbling from within. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing Abraham's assistant, Yusuf, looking momentarily anxious. The boy's expression relaxed when he saw it was only Aziraphale.

"Oh! Hello, Signor Aziraphale. Please, come in."

He moved aside, letting Aziraphale step into the warm relief of the heated room. A fire burned merrily in the grate, giving the crowded, bookish space a cheerful atmosphere.

"Signor ibn Daud has just stepped out," Yusuf was saying, "but he said to expect you and ask you to wait."

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied.

He was about to say more when his eyes fell on the scattering of crumbs on the front of Yusuf's robes. Yusuf noticed them at the same time, and Aziraphale looked away, trying not to smile as the boy brushed the crumbs hastily into his hand, then threw them into the fire.

"Will he be long?" Aziraphale asked, as if he hadn't noticed.

"I don't think so. He had something to discuss with Signor Gundisalvi, I believe."

Aziraphale nodded his understanding. Idly, he scanned the shelves, looking to see if Abraham had anything among his collection he might like to borrow. And there, hastily shoved back into place with its lid askew - the jar where Abraham kept his personal supply of sweet pastries.

Aziraphale glanced back at Yusuf, raising his eyebrows. Yusuf followed Aziraphale's gaze and blanched, his expression once of such comical dismay that it took all of Aziraphale's will not to burst out laughing. He took pity on the boy.

"Do you know, I'd love a mug of warmed wine," he said, not quite truthfully. "Would you be a dear and pop down to the refectory for me? And I overheard the cook earlier," he added in a conspiratorial voice.

Yusuf was not quite old enough to have got the hang of conspiracy. He looked sincerely confused. "Oh?"

"I believe they're making honey cakes today," Aziraphale said in a stage whisper. A beat. Then realisation dawned.

"Oh! Oh, well, I'd best go down and get you that wine, then," Yusuf said cheerfully. "Shall I bring some up for Ibn Daud, do you think?"

"I think he'd find that very thoughtful," Aziraphale smiled. "Though don't feel you have to rush. We'll be talking a while, I expect."

'I'll still be here when you've finished stuffing your gills with cake and wine and anything else Cook will indulge you with,' he left implied.

Yusuf gave a final parting grin and bounced off with the determined energy of a growing boy on the hunt for sustenance. Really, thought Aziraphale, helping himself to a pastry before replacing the lid properly, they didn't feed these lads enough. Then again, based on his experience with seventeen year olds over the years, there was no such thing as ‘enough’, whether they were bright-eyed, laughing girls wrangling their younger sisters on the caravan trails, or gangly young monks, awkward and bony in their too-big robes.

The study was mostly taken up with Abraham’s desk and a pair of comfortable chairs pulled close to the fire. There was a much smaller desk tucked away in one corner, no doubt intended for Yusuf, though at that moment it was piled high with so many manuscripts and scrolls and scraps of parchment that Aziraphale couldn’t imagine the young man got much work done there at all. Abraham’s desk was markedly more tidy, a place for everything and everything in its place. His efforts to pass his habits on to his young assistant were, as yet, apparently unsuccessful.

At the other end of the little room was another pair of chairs, simple wood with worn cushions on their seats. Between them was an end table holding a game board scattered with pieces. His curiosity piqued, Aziraphale moved over to take a closer look.

The board was lacquered wood with an intricate geometric pattern around its border that he’d come to associate with this part of the world, so long under Islamic rule. Toledo itself had fallen back into Christian hands some years before, but the Islamic influence was still strong in the city’s taste for art, architecture and clothing.

In the centre of the board was an eight by eight grid coloured in a chequerboard pattern, with two rows of coloured pieces on either side, ready for the game to begin.

A soft creak of wood behind him - the sound of someone trying to make as little noise as possible and not quite managing it. Aziraphale bit back a smile, not turning round. Still, he managed not to startle when Abraham - who else - broke the silence.

“Do you play?”

Abraham’s voice was deep and rich, slipping perfectly into the warm, firelit study. His soft, southern accent was easier for Aziraphale to parse than other native Castilian speakers at the school. Perhaps this was why he’d grown closer to Abraham in his time there than any of his other colleagues.

He turned, and found Abraham leaning against his desk, his dark eyes catching gold in the firelight, the curve of his mouth a gesture of pink in the softness of his beard. Aziraphale licked his lips. Perhaps not.

“No,” said Aziraphale, answering Abraham’s question. “No, I never learnt. I know other games like it though, I think. It’s a war game, isn’t it?”

Abraham pushed himself off the desk to standing, coming over to Aziraphale and the board. He was a big man, broad and well-built, with the body of someone who did a great deal of exercise in his youth but has since settled into softness. He stood closer to Aziraphale than was entirely necessary, picking up a piece at random.

“I suppose,” he said thoughtfully. “I admit, I’ve never found the men who play to be particularly war-like.”

“Not even when they lose?”

Abraham didn’t laugh, but then, he rarely did. But his expression softened, something like a smile twitching at his mouth. He set down the piece he was holding and with the movement, Aziraphale caught the scent of him. He smelled of rose water, clean and fragrant, a disarmingly delicate scent for a man of his stature.

“The conceit of the game is of two sides at war, yes,” he said. “But to call it a war game does it a disservice. War is an ugly, brutal thing. Shatranj is, or at least, can be, a thing of great beauty. You should let me teach you.”

“I’ve heard it’s terribly difficult. I shouldn’t like to take up too much of your time.”

“Oh, it would be a pleasure. Besides, it’s easy enough to learn.”

He shifted his weight, moving almost imperceptibly closer.

“Think of it like a dance,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “At first you learn the basic moves. What goes where. How to place your feet.” He slid one of the pieces forwards a square, the sound of stone sliding against woods surprisingly loud in the stillness between them. “Then, you learn the art. The joy. How to move with feeling and expression.”

He moved another piece, setting it down with a soft thud. It could have been at random for all Aziraphale knew. He didn’t care. He was watching Abraham’s fingers, strong and broad as the rest of him, the neat white half-moons of his nails.

“But the key, the thing that holds it together, that takes the dance from beautiful to sublime…”

Here, he stopped. Aziraphale stared at the board as if it would finish the sentence for him. But if there was a pattern in the pieces, he couldn’t read it. Finally, he lifted his eyes and found Abraham watching him with an expression at once shy and inviting. He inclined his head towards Aziraphale, a barely-there movement.

“Your partner,” he said. “You learn to read your partner. Their preferences. The way they think. The way they move. How they like to… play.”

His eyes darted to Aziraphale’s lips, so briefly that Aziraphale could have missed it - but not like this, not as close as they were, not with the crack of the fire the only sound in the room besides their breathing. Aziraphale felt the colour rise in his cheeks, the thrill of his desire waking under Abraham’s undivided attention. It took a force of will for him to remember where they were, that Yusuf would be back any moment with the wine, that they really, really ought to step back, put some distance between them…

“Sunday.”

Aziraphale blinked. “What?”

“Sunday,” Abraham repeated, as if were obvious. “You know where I live. Come over.”

Aziraphale let out a breathy laugh. “To… play shatranj?”

At that, Abraham twitched his eyebrows, that hint of a smile dancing in his eyes once more. “What else?”

#

Aziraphale took his time on the walk to Abraham’s rooms on Sunday afternoon. He had agreed to come over some time after lunch, and was used enough to the lackadaisical approach to punctuality in this region to know better than to hurry. Even if he arrived only shortly before dinner, Abraham would not consider him late. But at the same time, he had no desire to cut their time together unnecessarily short. Nerves fluttered through him at the thought - the thrill of happy, but not certain, anticipation.

The air was crisp and fresh, bright winter sun beating back all but the faintest snap of cold. Aziraphale suppressed a smile as he adjusted the soft, woollen shawl wrapped around his shoulders. The hose and doublets of the north were all well and good, but there was something to be said for the easy comfort of a loose flowing tunic and shawl - though the quiet opulence of Aziraphale’s chosen fabrics, and the fine embroidery at his collar and cuffs, belied the apparent simplicity of his dress.

It strangely comforting to be back in clothes so similar to the ones he’d worn for those thousands of years he’d spent in the Middle East. There were differences, of course, to account for advances in technology and the difference in climate - he wore loose trousers beneath his robe, and soft leather boots where in warmer climes he’d have been in sandals. But overall, the outfit was a familiar one, and he felt easy in his skin as he hadn’t for some years.

As he wound, not quite lazily, through the narrow, twisting streets, Aziraphale felt a comfortable sense of enclosure come over him. He felt wrapped in the city, and by the country around it, so far from the coast.

He felt wrapped up too in his own existence. He had nothing to worry about beyond the small concerns of the small, almost human life he had built for himself here. Heaven was quiet and distant, and he hadn’t seen Crowley - the only other dependable reminder of his true nature - for a number of years.[2]

He’d grown fond of the persona he’d created in Toledo - the learnèd Jewish scholar, worldly and well-travelled, stopping at the School of Translators for a time before continuing on his way. He liked it, he supposed, because it was not so very far from the truth.

He was so lost in his thoughts, he almost missed the turning to take him onto Abraham’s street. With a shake of his head, he brought himself back to the present.

Abraham’s house was one in a long row that ran the length of the street, the door set back from the road by a short flight of stairs. Aziraphale indulged himself in a quick miracle, putting his clothes in order and giving himself a general spruce. Then he climbed the stairs and rapped his knuckles on the unassuming wooden door.

There was a moment of silence, and then the door swung open to reveal Abraham himself. He filled the doorway, his expression one that, at the beginning of their acquaintance, Aziraphale would have read as stern. But he knew Abraham well enough now to read the softness in his eyes, the genuine pleasure he felt at the sight of his friend.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice warm with sincerity. He kissed Aziraphale on each cheek, and then, with just a hint of hesitation, once more on the first.

Aziraphale couldn’t help smiling. “For luck?” he asked, eyes sparkling. “I didn’t think shatranj was a game of chance.”

The question seemed to throw Abraham off for a second, and Aziraphale’s smile grew wider. Poor Abraham - a master of so many things, but humour was not among them.

But he rallied, and with a hesitant smile of his own he said, “Luck in learning, perhaps, with me as a teacher. I’ll do my best, but I fear you may never become a master under my tutelage.”

Aziraphale gave a cheerful shrug. “Oh, don’t feel too bad. Even the most adept teacher can only work within the natural abilities of his student, and I’m afraid I may give you short shrift in that department.”

Abraham huffed a laugh and stepped aside to let Aziraphale in the dim cosiness of the hallway beyond, closing the door behind him. It was warm inside, and the air smelled of something rich and spicy cooking in another room.

“Ah, but it’s a poor workman who blames his tools,” he countered. Aziraphale’s eyes found his, black in the low light.

“A tool?” said Aziraphale, unable to help himself. “Why, I hope you don’t intend to use me as badly as all that.”

A beat. Then Aziraphale laughed, helpless to stop himself at the stunned expression on Abraham’s face. For a man of such stature, Abraham managed to look remarkably bashful. He dipped his head, and Aziraphale was sure that if he could have seen them, he’d have found a hot blush on his cheeks.

“I… The study is through here,” Abraham managed, sounding at once mortified and delighted. Apparently, Aziraphale was not the only one harbouring some nerves about the afternoon.

Feeling full of affection to this sweet, serious man, Aziraphale followed as Abraham led him down the hall to the door of a small but charming kitchen.

“One moment,” Abraham said politely.

He went into the kitchen and Aziraphale, with nothing else to do, followed, hovering in the doorway. Abraham said something to a woman chopping vegetables, though he spoke in Castilian too quick for Aziraphale to quite catch, fetching a bottle of wine and two cups. As he did, the woman dumped the vegetables into a pan on the range behind her and wiped her hands on a cloth tucked into her apron strings.

“This will keep until you and your friend are ready for it,” she said, nodding politely at Aziraphale, the brief flash of a smile on her face. He nodded back, liking the woman instinctively.

“Thank you, Isabel. You are too good to me,” said Abraham fondly, and to Aziraphale’s surprise, he kissed her on the cheek as he passed. A servant, yes, but clearly a friend, too. “Don’t stay too long, please - you must be keen to get back to your mother.”

“I won’t,” she promised. “She sends her love, by the way.”

“Isabel is my lifeline,” said Abraham over his shoulder as he led Aziraphale into the back of the house. The building was deceptively large, given its unassuming exterior, stretching back further than Aziraphale would have guessed from the street. “Without her, it’s even odds whether I would starve or freeze to death first. Or perhaps be shunned from society for my filthy clothes.”

“I can’t believe that,” smiled Aziraphale. “You’re always so well put together.”

Abraham flashed that bare, blink-and-you-miss-it smile at him. “You should have seen me in my student days - I’m afraid I’m quite a sloven at heart. I keep up my appearance for Isabel’s sake. How embarrassing for her, if her master went out with his robes dirty and his beard untrimmed!”

Aziraphale had thought perhaps he was being taken to sit in the courtyard at the back of the house - chilly, perhaps, in the winter sun, but not too cold to be comfortable. But instead, Abraham led the way up a creaking set of wooden stairs.

Thus far, what he had seen of the house had fit his idea of Abraham - the décor was elegant and refined, with the occasional, slightly self-conscious foray into ostentation. It was, in all, a house befitting a man of Abraham’s comfortable, if not especially prosperous, stature.

But at the top of the stairs was a room more beautiful than Aziraphale could have anticipated. Clearly, this was Abraham’s pride and joy. Every inch of it spoke of care and devotion, to the fine rugs on the wooden floor to the ornately painted tiles on the walls. Light spilled in through tall windows, shutters thrown open to let in the clean, crisp air. Everywhere Aziraphale’s eyes landed, he found tasteful ornaments and beautifully crafted furniture. If he had ever been in any doubt, this room proclaimed Abraham to be a man of taste and understated style.

Aziraphale turned slowly to look around him, stunned for the moment. Finally, he turned and found Abraham watching him, almost nervous as he waited for Aziraphale’s response.

“Abraham,” Aziraphale said feelingly, “this is beautiful! What a charming room. You’ve outdone yourself.”

It didn’t seem possible that Abraham could have stood up straighter than his usual ramrod posture. But somehow, he managed it.

“You think so?” he said, a quiet note of delight in his voice. “It’s my favourite room in the house. The window faces the south, so it gets the most wonderful light."

Aziraphale scoffed. “Please. The light is the least of it. You’ve made the place shine."

Even as Abraham waved the compliment away, Aziraphale could see his cheeks darkening with happy pride.

“The board is just here,” he said, gesturing with the hand that still held the two wine glasses.

The shatranj board here was just as fine as the one in Abraham’s office, and Aziraphale admired its finely carved pieces as he waited for Abraham to pour the wine. He picked one up and turned it in his fingers. It was stone, finely carved and glazed dark green to set it apart from the red-glazed pieces of the opposition’s. It was a beautiful object, finely worked and smooth as glass under his fingertips.

“Oh!” he said, delightedly, seeing its shape. “A little horse!”

Abraham took his seat on the other side of the board, hanging Aziraphale his glass with the smallest smile.

“It’s called the cavalry,” he corrected gently. “As I said, the conceit of the game is of two warring armies. Each piece represents a different division. Indeed, the name itself means ‘four divisions’."

Aziraphale made an interested noise and drank his wine. It was very good, which at this point didn’t surprise him in the least.

Abraham went on, gesturing to the front row of his pieces. “These are the infantry, the foot soldiers. First to move, first into the fray. The first casualties. Then, on the back row - the king and his adviser; the elephantry; then, the-”

“Horsies,” Aziraphale interrupted, grinning.

“The _cavalry_ ,” Abraham repeated, but his eyes shone with humour. “And the charioteers at either end. Now, each unit has its own specific way of moving…”

Aziraphale listened, mostly. There was the small, rather distracting matter of the way the afternoon sunlight was coming in through the window, catching the flecks of grey in Abraham’s hair and turning them silver, but he tried to muscle through.

If nothing else, a certain tentative passion crept into Abraham’s voice as he explained the game. That alone would have been enough to make Aziraphale try his best to learn. It was infinitely endearing to see Abraham’s awkwardness slip away from him as he spoke, a light coming into his eyes that Aziraphale had only ever seen before when he was discussing a particularly juicy question of theology or translation.

So, he ignored the beautiful, coppery shine of Abraham’s skin in the sunlight, and concentrated on his words instead.

The game seemed simple enough on the surface, but it wasn’t long before Aziraphale spotted the crux of its complexity.

“Oh!” he gasped, interrupting Abraham with the realisation. “It’s unsolvable! You can’t just work out the best moves and do that all the time, I mean,” he explained. “There are so many variations. Even if you played for years and years”-or, in his case, centuries and centuries-”you wouldn’t be able to work out all the possible combinations of play."

Abraham’s face lit up as if some internal fire had just caught new kindling. “Yes! Yes, that’s it exactly! The rules are simple, the moves are easy to memorise. But there’s always more to learn - new strategies, new variations."

“Yes, I see,” said Aziraphale, with new enthusiasm. “Well, no wonder you thought you couldn’t make a master of me - it would take a sight more than one afternoon’s worth of lessons to get your head around."

“We-” began Abraham, but cut himself off. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. After a small hesitation, Abraham said, “I mean. We don’t have to leave it at one afternoon."

Aziraphale’s smile spread broad and sincere. “I’d like that,” he said. “I’d like that very much."

His words brought a real smile to Abraham’s face at last, making the lines around his eyes crinkle. “Good,” he said warmly. “Good, I… I’m glad."

For a moment, they looked at each other across the table, all smiles and lightness. Then a flicker of doubt came into Abraham’s eyes. He licked his lips, seemed about to speak. But the words, it seemed, would not come. He cleared his throat and tried again, eyes darting from the board to Aziraphale and back.

“I, um. That is." He took a breath. “Of course, I don’t mean…”

Above his beard, his cheeks were dark with a hot blush. He looked almost frightened, this great bear of a man reduced to stammering at the thought of saying his thoughts out loud.

In an act of mercy, Aziraphale leant across the table and took Abraham’s hand in his. “Abraham. It’s alright. You… You haven’t misunderstood,” he said gently.

Abraham looked down at their hands, clasped together. Slowly, he moved, interlacing their fingers. His palm was dry, and Aziraphale could feel his pulse where their fingers pressed together. Incrementally, Abraham’s shoulders fell.

“Thank you,” he said, in a quiet voice. Aziraphale waited, sure there was more he wanted to say. Sure enough, after a minute or so Abraham went on. “It’s not always easy. To find… you know. Men like us."

The phrase sent a bloom of warmth through Aziraphale’s chest. He squeezed Abraham’s hand a little tighter, a silent encouragement for him to continue.

“I have friends,” Abraham said after a pause. “Friends like us, I mean. And, of course, there have been others. And really, it’s not so bad as it could be - I hear things are far more difficult in the north."

He looked at Aziraphale as if for confirmation. Aziraphale gave a short nod. It was a clumsy simplification, but not a wholly inaccurate one. Emboldened, Abraham went on.

“But, still. It’s frightening, to be the first to say something out loud. Even if you think… Even if you’re almost certain…”

“Darling, you’ve been staring at me for six months,” said Aziraphale affectionately. “I think it’s safe to say, it’s certain."

At that, Abraham’s mouth twitched. He looked at Aziraphale from under lashes thick as a camel’s. “You only noticed because you were staring back."

Aziraphale laughed. He couldn’t deny it. Didn’t want to. His heart was singing in his chest, relief and delight and an aching anticipation mingling in a heady cocktail until he felt almost drunk.

Abraham got to his feet in a sudden rush, as if he wasn’t sure he’d have the courage to do it more slowly. Aziraphale stood too, his hand still in Abraham’s, and then Abraham’s free hand was on his waist, pulling him closer.

“Wait."

Aziraphale’s voice was quiet but it stopped Abraham in his tracks. His dark eyes searched Aziraphale’s face, concern creasing his forehead. Aziraphale rushed to reassure him, laying a hand on the broad cushion of Abraham’s chest, thrilling at the warm solidity of him even as he spoke.

“I need to ask you something first,” he said. He didn’t look at Abraham’s face, wasn’t sure he’d be able to trust himself to keep talking if he did. “I’ve been with people before - men, I mean - who… Well, they’re all for it in the moment, and we have a nice time and what have you. But then, later, they have a change of heart."

He swallowed against the twinge of regret and discomfort the memories evoked. It wasn’t a common occurrence - more often than not, he and his lovers parted ways perfectly amicably, often with a great deal of affection still between them.

But there were one or two whose memory twisted uncomfortably in his chest, whom he knew looked back on their time with him with regret and shame. There was nothing he could have done about it, he knew. They simply got tangled up in their own ideas and expectations of the world. But still. It hurt, knowing he had hurt them, however inadvertently.

Cautiously, he raised his eyes to Abraham’s face. Abraham hadn’t moved. He’d simply waited as Aziraphale searched for the right words, his hand heavy on Aziraphale’s waist, the warmth of his palm sinking through the fabric. His expression was one of gentle patience, the lines around his eyes more visible this close and remarkably delicate. Aziraphale lifted his hand to brush a finger over them, barely touching.

“I need to know I’m not going to be something you regret,” he said, almost a whisper. “That you aren’t going to have a crisis of religion or politics or something in a week, or a month, and suddenly wish you’d never met me."

When Abraham answered, Aziraphale felt the rumble of it in his own chest. “I could never regret you."

Aziraphale laughed gently, but he did not relax, not quite. He needed a little more, yet. Abraham ran a thoughtful hand through Aziraphale’s curls, fingers light against his scalp.

“I don’t think Hashem wants me to suffer,” he said after a moment. “I… I don’t believe I was made with this body and these desires just so that I would spend my life miserable. Besides,” he said, his eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun, “I’m too old for a crisis of faith. Guilt is a young man’s game. Now, please - may I kiss you?”

Aziraphale smiled, heart leaping at the words. He nodded, and his eyes slipped shut as Abraham’s grip tightened around his waist, pulling him close.

#

Three months later, Aziraphale was walking on clouds. Metaphorically, that is. Literally he was sitting on a pile of cushions in an opulent sitting room, Abraham sat behind him, bracketing Aziraphale with his long legs. They were spending the evening with some friends of Abraham’s - a party of six in all, sitting around a low coffee table full of bowls of fruit and nuts, half empty carafes littering the space around them.

“He’d be a fool to try,” Abraham was saying. “No potential good could outweigh the costs - even if he was successful-”

“You sound like an old maid! The world doesn’t change through caution and softly-softly politics. This is a time for decisive action."

This was Idlāl, a name that meant ‘boldness’ and suited its owner to the ground. She and Abraham had been locked in an affable argument about local politics for the last half hour or so, and she showed no signs of backing down.

Idlāl worked at the School, and had first been introduced to Aziraphale with another name, wearing men’s clothes and using male forms of address. But here, behind closed doors and in the company of the people who loved her, she was Idlāl, hair spilling out from under a light veil instead of the turban she sported at work, dripping with jewellery at her wrists and neck.

Her acceptance of Aziraphale into this trusted circle after such a relatively short acquaintance was testament to the faith she placed in Abraham, and the knowledge warmed Aziraphale’s heart. Of course his Abraham could be trusted, this man who approached even affairs of the heart with a sombre level-headedness. It made Aziraphale strangely fond, and he pressed back against Abraham’s chest, letting his eyes slip closed as the argument washed over him.

“Now, you two, look what you’ve done. You’re boring poor Aziraphale to sleep,” a third voice admonished - Safwan, a specialist in medical translations. At his words, Aziraphale waved his hand dismissively.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account. It’s very soothing."

The sound of laughter, followed by an affectionate squeeze from where Abraham’s arm wrapped round Aziraphale’s waist.

“Shall we play a game?” said Abraham. “Not shatranj,” he added quickly, making Aziraphale laugh.

“Abraham’s been teaching me,” Aziraphale explained to the little gathering. “He puts me through my paces every Sunday."

“I’m sure he does,” said Idlāl, her eyebrows wiggling.

“You can’t play shatranj with six, anyway,” pointed out Nasr, the only member of the party not employed at the School.

He’d come to the party with Safwan, though Aziraphale hadn’t seen the two of them interact much over the course of the evening. He’d assumed they were friends, but there was a marked coolness between them that had him confused.

“We don’t have to play anything,” Aziraphale said, sitting up and joining the conversation properly. “Really, don’t feel you have to go out of your way on my behalf."

“You’re sweet,” said Idlāl, “but they’re not doing it your account. I’m sure Abraham and I have bored everyone almost to tears."

“I wasn’t bored,” said Caro, the last of the party.

Caro was Italian, and one of the only Christian translators at the school who wasn’t also a monk. He was a thin, eager man who reminded Aziraphale rather of a greyhound, and who looked at Idlāl like she hung the moon whenever he thought she wasn’t looking.

Almost as soon as he’d spoken, his cheeks pinked. He dropped his gaze, missing entirely the expression of undisguised affection on Idlāl's face.

Safwan, though, waved Caro’s words away, pouring himself more wine. “No, she’s right. These two will keep arguing until sunrise if we don’t stop them."

He filled Nasr’s glass without so much as looking at him to confirm the decision, then passed the carafe to Aziraphale.

“In that case, what do you suggest?” Aziraphale filled his own glass as he spoke. “I’m a dab hand at knucklebones."

The statement caused a ripple of laughter, as Aziraphale had known it would. It was unlikely anyone here had touched a set of knucklebones since they were children.

“Let’s play alniqash,” Nasr suggested, to a surprisingly vehement, though far from uniform, reaction.

“You only want to play because you always win,” complained Caro, just as Idlāl and Abraham reacted with cries of enthusiastic support. Caro threw up his hands. “Oh, you two are as bad as him!”

Idlāl reached over and patted him on the knee. “Don’t worry, Caro. We’ll let you go first."

“You’ll be better than me,” said Aziraphale. “I’ve never played before. What are the rules?”

“It’s an argument game,” Idlāl began.

“You can see why this lot like it,” Caro said, morosely.

Idlāl went on, ignoring him. “One person picks a topic and plays as the judge. Then we go round in turn and have one minute to argue our point-”

“But you mustn’t stray from the topic or repeat yourself,” cut in Abraham. His cheeks were flushed with wine and excitement, dark eyes twinkling, though his voice was as deadly serious as ever.

“A hard ask,” said Aziraphale sombrely. “You know I tend to ramble."

Abraham pressed a kiss to the side of Aziraphale’s head. “I’m sure you’ll be a natural, habibi."

The endearment was a common one in Toledo, another reminder of the city’s long Muslim rule. But common or not, it sounded wonderful in Abraham’s rich, melted chocolate voice, and Aziraphale didn’t bother to repress his little wiggle of contentment at hearing it.

Nasr threw a pistachio in their direction. “Revolting."

Aziraphale picked the nut up from where it landed on his robe and popped it in his mouth. “Sorry,” he said, utterly uncontrite. “How do you win?”

“The judge hears your arguments in turn and then declares who they think is the most convincing,” said Idlāl, helping herself to some grapes.

“Or the funniest,” added Nasr, “if Caro’s the judge."

“Excuse me for wanting a game to be fun,” sad Caro darkly, but his demeanour softened when Idlāl ruffled his hair making a soothing, clucking noise with her tongue.

“Poor Caro,” she said. “He resents using his brain on anything but work. You won’t run out, you know - you’ve got more brains than any of us."

Caro scoffed and took a drink, trying not to look as thrilled as he obviously was. A pistachio hit him in the side of the head.

“Revolting,” said Safwan, matter of fact. “Pick a topic, Ids."

Caro caught Aziraphale’s eyes. “Wait for it,” he said.

Idlāl straightened in her seat, sipping her wine as if for inspiration. She looked wonderful in the lamplight, relaxed and regal, her cheekbones catching the light sharp and beautiful. It was easy to see what Caro liked about her.

“Your topic,” she said thoughtfully, “is… What is the opposite of love?”

Aziraphale burst out laughing. “Oh, you weren’t joking!”

“I told you! These bloody intellectuals and their bloody intellectual games-”

“ _You’re_ an intellectual,” shot Nasr. “I’m the odd one out here."

“You’re belligerent enough for two of us,” Safwan shot back. Nasr pulled a face at him and drank his wine.

“Don’t worry, Caro, we already said you can go first,” Idlāl reassured him. “It gets harder as it goes around,” she explained to Aziraphale, “as people take the obvious arguments. Would you like to go after Caro?”

Aziraphale considered. “Might I wait until the end? That way if I can't think of anything, it won't disrupt things too much."

“Of course,” said Idlāl kindly. “I’ll get the sand timer."

“I’ll get it,” said Caro, jumping to his feet. Idlāl hadn’t even moved, knowing him too well.

The party took the opportunity to fill their plates and glasses, settling down to play. As promised, Caro took the first turn. Idlāl counted down from three, then turn the sand timer over with a gesture for him to begin.

He started confidently enough, but almost immediately lost his steam.

“The opposite of love is hate,” he said, “because… because everyone knows it is!”

His blush deepened as his friends laughed, but it seemed to give him new energy.

“They do! If you went out and asked a hundred people - ordinary people, mind, people who haven’t turned their brains to mud by filling their heads up with too many books and languages and high-brow ideas - a hundred people with ordinary jobs like, like, cooking, for example, or baking, or building, or butchers, or fletchers, or-”

“Off topic!” cried Nasr, laughing. “Judge! Off topic!”

Caro raised his voice about the jeers and laughter. “If you asked a hundred people - seven hundred, a _thousand_ ordinary people what the opposite of love is, they’d say ‘hate’. And that’s how words _work_ , we all agree on what they mean and that’s the end of it.

“Time!” called Idlāl, laughing along with the rest.

“Thank Christ for that,” said Caro, slumping back against his cushions. His eyes were bright though, and there didn’t seem to be much chance of him regretting anything that had made Idlāl laugh so hard.

“You did very well, I thought,” said Aziraphale.

“You’re a sweetheart, but no,” said Caro. “It was a poor show. At least it’s done now, and I can concentrate on my wine."

He raised his glass in a toast, grinning to show there were no hard feelings.

Next came Safwan. He drew himself up, waiting for Idlāl to turn the glass. As soon as she gave the nod, he was off.

“It’s no argument at all to say that the opposite of love is hate just because the common people think it’s so. After all, what is the use of education if not to give you a finer appreciation of the nuances of life and language than the common person?

“Language is like wine - anyone might drink, but it takes time to develop one’s palate. The ordinary, uneducated person has no more insight into the subtleties of language than a child of ten has on the different qualities of wine-”

“Judge,” called Nasr, almost lazily. There was an arrogant tilt to his chin as he spoke. “Off topic - off topic by a country mile."

Safwan glared at him. “I’m not off topic,” he said, his voice carefully level. “I’m building up to my poi-”

“Time,” said Idlāl, with an apologetic look.

Safwan’s face contorted in outrage, his mouth opened to argue, cheeks dark with rage, but he was cut off by Nasr’s laughter.

“You!” Safwan turned on him. “You bastard!”

“Gotta keep your focus, Saffy!” Nasr laughed, holding up his hands and looking not the least bit sorry. “Not my fault you can’t stay on topic!”

Safwan fixed him with a look of cold fury, which only deepened when Nasr blew him a kiss. “I hate you."

Nasr didn’t seem at all put out by the statement. “You’ll like my argument, then. Listen up."

Behind him, Aziraphale felt Abraham shaking his head. “These two are ridiculous,” he muttered, low enough that only Aziraphale could hear. Aziraphale wanted to ask, but before he could, Idlāl had turned the glass once more.

“The opposite of love cannot be hate because they are two sides of the same coin,” said Nasr. “Hate burns, it’s a passionate, obsessive emotion. When you hate, it eats at your heart and engulfs your soul - just as love does.

“Love and hate are portraits painted in the same colours, only different for the brush strokes. The opposite of love is not hate, but disinterest. Hate and love can co-exist, because they flow from the same source - passion. Meanwhile, disinterest smothers love as surely as water smothers fire."

“Time,” called Idlāl. “Nasr is always very precise in his timing,” she said to Aziraphale in a conspiratorial tone.

“Someone has to be,” said Nasr, dropping a wink in Safwan’s direction.

Safwan’s furious expression didn’t lift, but Aziraphale didn’t miss the flash of his eyes, glancing at Nasr’s mouth and away, the spark of pink tongue as Safwan licked his lips, the moment of hunger in the look. Perhaps he didn’t need Abraham to explain the relationship after all.

It was Abraham’s turn next. He hooked his chin over Aziraphale’s shoulder, nosing at his ear. “Promise you won’t think less of me if I lose? I’ve had rather a lot of wine."

“I’m afraid that won’t do at all,” said Aziraphale, straight-faced. “I couldn’t possibly continue an acquaintance with you without this reassurance of your intellect."

“Well, at least I know where I stand, I suppose."

Aziraphale turned his head and dropped a kiss to the side of Abraham’s nose. “For luck,” he said, smiling prettily.

“That’s not fair,” said Caro. “None of the rest of us had any good luck kisses. I might have won with a good luck kiss on my side."

“You’re quite right,” said Aziraphale. “I’ll take it back." And he kissed Abraham again, careful to match his lips to the same spot. “There,” he said, smiling. “It’s off now. Fair’s fair."

“Can I have it back when I’m finished?” asked Abraham.

“Only if you win."

A pistachio dinged off the side of Abraham’s head. With a perfect, comical expression of surprise, he looking in the direction it had come from.

“Revolting!” giggled Idlāl. “Your time starts… now!”

Abraham sat up, forcing Aziraphale to do the same. He spread his hands, making Aziraphale momentarily mourn the loss of warmth from his touch.

“Disinterest cannot be the opposite of love,” he began, “because it strays too far in the inverse direction to that which my honoured colleague claims is the reason for hate’s dismissal as a viable definition."

Aziraphale laughed, enjoying the exaggerated verbosity of the speech - not least because it wasn’t quite as far from Abraham’s usual register as he might have imagined. The thought only made Aziraphale fond, though, even as he laughed.

Abraham went on. “There must be, in each thing’s opposite, at least some quality, however small - or, indeed, however general, which ties this opposite in thought or category if not in characteristic - and it might be admitted here that the characteristics must perforce be largely different - but some element nonetheless which makes both the original and the opposite part of the same over-arching family of ideas. Indifference is not the opposite of love any more than fire is the opposite of wool. They are of two too separate categories of being. The opposite of love is-”

“Time!”

“Loneliness!” Abraham finished loudly, as if Idlāl hadn’t spoken.

Shouts of dismay flew up into the air. “Over time, judge! Over time!”

Idlāl spread her hands magnanimously. “I’m afraid I can’t accept your final word, Abraham. Your argument was incomplete at the end of your time."

Abraham threw up his hands. “A failure! Habibi, how will I ever restore your good opinion of me?”

“No!” said Safwan with sudden vehemence. “No, that means Nasr is the only one with a complete argument!”

“Mine was complete,” Caro pointed out.

“Complete shit,” laughed Nasr.

Safwan looked imploringly at Aziraphale. “You have to take a turn,” he begged. “You can’t let this, this _tyrant_ succeed!”

Aziraphale’s head was full of bubbles, he felt hot and happy, drunk on the company - and more than a little wine.

“Alright,” he said, beaming. “I’ll give it a go. As I see it-”

“Wait! Let me get the timer!”

“Sorry. Ready?”

“Three, two, one… Go!”

“As I see it,” Aziraphale repeated, “the opposite of love must share enough of its qualities to be recognisably related, while lacking love’s core signifiers. And at its core, love is about joy." He looked around the room, heart full as he took in these smiling, motley friends. “Joy and acceptance. To be loved is to be seen as you truly are, and celebrated. It’s instinctual and illogical - you can’t help who you love any more than you can force yourself to love what you do not.

“So, love’s opposite must not be something cold as disinterest, or have the vicious joy of decadent hate. It must see its object as it is, and recoil, instinctively, closing off where love spreads wide. Why, the opposite of love is fear."

“And… time!” called Idlāl. “Bravo!”

“Oh, I _knew_ you couldn’t be worst that me,” moaned Caro, but he was laughing as he said it.

Safwan leant forwards in his seat. “Does he win?” he said eagerly. “Please, say he wins!”

Idlāl considered, biting her lip as she thought. “Well, you all made good arguments…”

Nasr and Safwan’s voices rose, shouting more at each other that Idlāl, arguing their points. Idlāl silence them with a gesture.

“The judge’s ruling is… _Aziraphale_ is the winner!”

Nasr threw himself back on the cushions, one arm dramatically thrown over his eyes. But his complaints were drowned out by Safwan’s triumphant cheers - clearly he was even happier with Aziraphale’s win than Aziraphale. He took Aziraphale’s hand and shook it heartily.

“Well done, friend. A well-deserved victory."

“Yes, well done,” said Caro, reaching for a full carafe of wine. “Now can we please play something else?”

Aziraphale twisted round, beaming at Abraham. “I won!”

“You won,” Abraham confirmed, his stoic demeanour bursting with warmth.

Aziraphale leant in, his hand on the side of Abraham’s face, and kissed Abraham’s sweet, soft mouth, the slip of Abraham’s tongue against his own the only prize he could have wished for.

To his absolute lack of surprise, a second later he felt a shower of pistachio nuts rain down around them, as at least three voices shouted in unison, “ _Revolting_!”

#

It was late when they left Idlāl's and started the short walk to Abraham’s house, a still, sweet-scented night. Aziraphale slipped his hand into Abraham’s, lacing their fingers together. It always felt like they were getting away with something when they walked hand in hand. The gesture was commonplace between friends, and it always gave Aziraphale a small thrill to think that nobody looking would be able to tell at the significance it held for them, how Abraham’s touch sent a shiver of pleasure through him, how the beat of his heart thrummed between Aziraphale’s fingers.

They rounded a corner, and Abraham gave a soft snort of amusement. He nodded towards a dark patch beside the road where trees blocked out the moonlight. It took a moment for Aziraphale’s eyes to focus on what he’d taken for a twist of tree stump. He bit back a laugh as the shape coalesced into two bodies, locked in a passionate embrace. Nasr and Safwan, unable to keep their hands off each other a moment longer.

“Ridiculous creatures,” said Abraham.

“There’s no accounting for infatuation, I suppose,” said Aziraphale, smiling.

With a surreptitious wave of his hand, he sent a wave of divine good will washing over the two men, a blessing of safety to keep them hidden from prying eyes. Let them enjoy their tryst, the mad, intoxicating ardour of a love that burnt as hot as hatred. He was content with Abraham’s staid, respectable affection.

They walked in silence, comfortable in each other’s company, and the night took on a dream-like stillness, as if the world was holding its breath all around them. They slipped into Abraham’s house, blue-dark and silent but for the creak of their feet on the stairs. And finally, to bed, where Abraham took Aziraphale in his arms and they made quiet, dream-like love, their bodies moving together like the only things in the universe left awake.

#

Officially, Aziraphale didn’t believe that pleasure had to be earned through pain. Life’s pleasures were a gift given by the grace of God and were to be accepted as such. But in his experience, there was a consistent and definite price to be paid for the joy of academic study: meetings.

It was the Tuesday after the party and Aziraphale was squashed into a seat at table with too many chairs pulled up around it, each filled with a senior figure in the School. He hadn’t even managed to get a seat next to Abraham.

In fact, things between him and Abraham had been a little strained since the party. They’d woken the morning after, and enjoyed a sleepy breakfast before their usual shatranj lesson. But as the day wore on, Abraham had got more and more reserved, retreating into his head.

Still, he answered Aziraphale’s smile with one of his own, and Aziraphale supposed there was nothing to be done but wait and see how things went between them.

Slowly, Aziraphale became aware that the tone of the meeting had changed. He tuned back in, just in time to hear the sweetest words uttered in any interminable meeting:

“…open the floor to any other business?”

Aziraphale breathed a sigh of relief. Almost finished, and then he could get out of this stuffy room and back to his office (perhaps stopping by Abraham’s study for a kiss if Yusuf was out, or at least a pastry if he wasn’t) and the work he’d interrupted to come here this morning.

The first item was a general reminder for people to please not remove manuscripts from the library unless absolutely necessary, and to return them in good time. Then the bursar, waffling about something to do with the cost of ink. Finally, the archbishop checked his notes.

“We have a new arrival this week,” he said, causing a murmur of interest around the room. “He’s coming from Seville, we’re to expect him next Thursday or Friday. Fellow of the name of… oh, I had it here somewhere…”

“Crowley, your grace,” said the bursar. “Apparently he’s done some fabulous work on poetry from…”

But the rest of his words were lost in the ringing in Aziraphale’s ears. He had no doubt it was _his_ Crowley they were talking about - though as soon as he thought it, he admonished himself, and then lost more of the conversation in scrabbling for some other epithet to use. _The_ Crowley? The one and only? No doubt that was how Crowley thought of himself…

“Is something amusing, Aziraphale?” came the archbishop’s voice, jerking Aziraphale back to the present. His cheeks flushed as he realised all eyes in the room were pointed at him, but even in his embarrassment he couldn’t help smiling.

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just- I know him, your grace. Crowley, I mean."

The archbishop’s bristling eyebrows rose. “Oh? What’s he like?”

For a moment, Aziraphale was lost for words. Where to begin?

“He’s… He takes a great deal of pride in his work,” he hazarded. He didn’t want to lie, after all. “And he’s fantastically clever, quite one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met. Which is saying something, really. We’ve known each other for- Well, forever. Knows me better than I know myself, I sometimes think. And he’s enormously funny, though you’d better keep an eye on him, he’s got a mischievous streak a mile wi-”

He broke off, blush deepening as he realised quite how far off track he’d wandered.

“He’ll be a good addition to the team,” he finished weakly.

The meeting finished in a blur. Aziraphale barely heard another word that was spoken. The last time he’d seen Crowley, the demon had been gearing up to start one of his infernal (in every sense of the word) projects, something tricky and complex and utterly incomprehensible to anyone but him, that would no doubt have untold repercussions for the next three centuries at least.[3] He hardly believed his luck, that they should be thrown together again so soon.

The rest of the day was a write-off. He could hardly concentrate on his work. Every time he picked up his pen, he found his attention drifting, wondering if it would be next Thursday or Friday when he saw Crowley, what they might say to each other, how Crowley might be wearing his hair now. It was a rare treat to have advanced notice of his and Crowley’s work overlapping, and he couldn’t deny, he relished it.

The day slipped into evening, and before he knew it, Abraham was knocking gently at his office door, offering to walk him home. Aziraphale accepted gladly, and they stepped out into the warm, spring evening, hand in hand.

After a few minutes’ walk, Abraham cleared his throat. “Aziraphale, can we talk?”

His tone was solemn, but his tone was always solemn. Still, the question sent a flicker of trepidation through Aziraphale.

“Of course,” he said, trying to sound casual. When he looked at Abraham’s face, though, he found he was lost in thought.

“What’s wrong?” asked Aziraphale. “You look worried."

Abraham’s mouth twitched. “Not… not worried, exactly. I… I was wondering about this… Crowley."

For a moment, Aziraphale was as confused as ever. Then, realisation struck. He laughed. “Crowley? Oh, he’s just a friend."

Abraham’s frown didn’t lift. “You spoke very warmly of him."

“Well, yes,” said Aziraphale slowly. “As I said, he’s a friend. A good friend. An old friend. But really, darling, you don’t have anything to worry about on his account."

Abraham nodded, but he said nothing else for a long time. When he did, it was with the air of a confession.

“My… My worries aren’t only on his account,” he admitted slowly. “Since the party, I’ve been thinking… Did you mean what you said that night?”

Aziraphale’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “I said all sorts of things, no doubt I meant at least some of them,” he said with forced jocularity. Abraham didn’t rise to the attempt to lift the mood.

“About love. ‘To be loved is to be seen for what you are, and celebrated’. Did you mean that?”

“Oh. Well… yes. Yes, I suppose I did. Why?”

Abraham adjusted his hold on Aziraphale’s hand, his dark brows pulled together in thought. Eventually he sighed.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s not important."

“Oh, don’t do that!” Aziraphale’s voice was too loud for the quiet street, but a sick sort of worry was starting to rise in the back of his throat. “Please don’t say that, or I’ll be worrying about it all the way home."

Abraham’s expression softened. His eyes found Aziraphale’s, a complicated look in his eyes. “I suppose it made me think about us. About… love."

Aziraphale wanted to smile, but there was something in Abraham’s tone of voice that made him hold back. “What about love?” he prompted.

There was a long, thoughtful pause. When Abraham spoke, he kept his eyes fixed ahead of him, as if airing his thoughts to the evening air.

“I feel that way about you. I feel loved by you. You look at me and I feel like you see me as I am - all that I am. And you love me for it. It’s a wonderful feeling,” he admitted, with a shy glance at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand again, his stomach full of happy flutters of relief. He was going to say something, but Abraham went on.

“You love me, and love me truly. I know it, I feel it. But… I cannot help the feeling that I cannot do the same."

It was as if the road had fallen away beneath Aziraphale’s feet. His mouth felt numb. His tongue wouldn’t do as he asked.

“Oh,” he managed weakly.

“Habibi… Please, it’s not…” Abraham sighed, his grip on Aziraphale’s hand so tight it might have hurt if Aziraphale could still feel anything. “You’re beautiful, and fascinating, and I enjoy spending time with you very, very much. But I’ve known you for nine months now, and I feel like I’ve hardly seen anything of you at all.

“You hold so many things inside you. I can feel the weight of them all when I take you in my arms. But you won’t let me see them. You won’t… You won’t show yourself to me. I want to love you, Aziraphale, as truly as you love me. I want it more than I’ve wanted anything for a long time. But I don’t know how I can when you won’t let me in."

Aziraphale’s ears were ringing. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, the best his strangled throat could manage.

He wished Abraham would hug him. He wished he would take Aziraphale in his arms and hold him close, and tell him he had nothing to apologise for. But that wasn’t who Abraham was - steady, serious Abraham who thought things through so carefully and never gave in to his emotions. Instead, he sighed heavily, running his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand.

“This Crowley fellow. It’s just another thing I didn’t know about. You have this man in your life who- Do you even know? Your whole face, the minute you started talking about him it was like a fire was suddenly lit inside you."

“Abraham, I promise, there’s nothing going on between-”

“That’s not the point,” Abraham went on doggedly. “However you love him, the point is that I never even knew he existed."

Anger flashed through Aziraphale. “I can’t be expected to share everything about my life before I met you,” he snapped, making Abraham’s jaw tighten

“I didn’t say that,” he said, infuriatingly calm. “It’s just one example. I know almost nothing about you, Aziraphale. I don’t even know what your mother and father were called! And that would be fine, that’s not- I don’t need a list of trivia to feel like I know you. But I _don’t_ feel like I know you. I feel…”

“Like I’m holding back,” Aziraphale finished, his voice small and quiet.

They’d reached the door of Aziraphale’s home, and he wasn’t sure if he was relieved to see it or not. He didn’t wait to ask if Abraham wanted to come in. He couldn’t have this conversation in public any longer, he refused to.

Once the front door was closed behind them, he turned to face Abraham once more. He folded his arms across his chest, trying to hold himself together. He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing he _could_ say. He couldn’t reassure Abraham, couldn’t share a life with him - he didn’t have one to share. Or, not one Abraham could understand, at least.

Eventually, Abraham spoke. “I don’t mean this to be the end, Aziraphale. That wasn’t what I was saying. But I… I want more. I didn’t realise it until the other night. I didn’t have the words for it."

Aziraphale laughed, wet and bitter. “Should have kept my mouth shut,” he said. “Caro was right - it’s a stupid game."

Abraham didn’t laugh, but then, he rarely did. He stepped closer, taking Aziraphale’s unresisting hands in his and lifting them to his mouth, brushing his lips against his knuckles.

“I’m happy, habibi. Do you hear me? I’m happy with you, you make me happy."

“That didn’t sound like happiness."

“Aziraphale…” Abraham sighed. “I wouldn’t be saying any of this if I didn’t want to be with you. You’re…”

“Fun,” said Aziraphale, his voice hollow.

Abraham’s answer was stern. “You’re more than fun. You’re incredible."

“How do you know,” said Aziraphale dryly. “You don’t even know me."

To his relief (and, yes, frustration), Abraham dismissed his words with a cluck of his tongue. He pulled Aziraphale close, kissing his cheeks and mouth before settling into the embrace.

“I’m going to my sister’s,” Abraham said after a while. “I’d planned to anyway, but now, I… I think you need some space."

“How kind."

“Habibi…”

“Sorry. When do you go?”

“Early next week."

Aziraphale nodded, feeling soft and stupid. Abraham’s sister lived in Madrid, and the fact Aziraphale knew that made him feel swimmy and strange, as if the fact only highlighted the disparity between them.

“I’ll be gone for a few weeks. I’ll write to you."He took Aziraphale by the shoulders, dipping his chin to force him to make eye contact. “This isn’t goodbye, Aziraphale. I’m coming back. I’m coming back _to you_.

Aziraphale sniffed, nodding. He didn’t feel quite able to speak. It didn’t matter what Abraham said - when he kissed him, it felt like goodbye. It was the beginning of the end for this thing they’d made together, he knew it as surely as he knew the sun would rise tomorrow.

What hurt, he thought, climbing into bed that night, was that he’d done it to himself. He’d let himself get swept up in the story he was telling about the man he was, the life he could have. It wasn’t a thought he could deal with all at once. He pulled the covers over his head, grateful at least that his months of sleeping beside Abraham had got him used to the habit.

#

The week passed in a dull haze. Aziraphale tried to put a brave face on for Abraham’s sake, but it was fruitless. He was miserable, and had never been much good at hiding his emotions.

He and Abraham spent the weekend together, as they usually did, and on Monday Aziraphale saw him off from the stables. It would take a day or two for Abraham to reach Madrid, and Aziraphale knew he wouldn’t write immediately - he would want to wait until he had something he felt was worth saying. As Aziraphale watched him go, he sent a blessing after him, ensuring a safe and pleasant journey. It seemed like the least he could do.

Afterwards, he stopped in at his office to pick up some manuscripts he was working on and explained to his assistant that he’d be working at home for the rest of the week. As an afterthought, he told the boy to give his address to the new arrival when he got in from Seville. Then he went home, laid his work out on his desk, considered where to begin… and went back to bed instead.

On Friday evening, Aziraphale was sitting in his study staring out the window and wondering whether or not he wanted to observe shabbat. He’d got into the habit since he and Abraham spent most Friday nights together, and he wasn’t sure if keeping the ritual would make him feel better or worse.

A knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. His heart leapt into his throat.

“Crowley,” he whispered.

He was downstairs in a rush, taking a moment to catch his breath. Then he threw the door open.

There, resplendent in the evening sun, leaning against the door-frame like he owned the place, was Crowley. His smile was broad and wicked below his dark glasses, his hair long and curling around his shoulders.

“Hi, angel,” he said, as easy as if he’d never been away. “Long time no-”

And Aziraphale promptly burst into tears.

#

They ended up in the sitting room, on a sofa not really designed to hold two grown men but which had found itself in an accommodating mood. Crowley leant against one arm with Aziraphale half sitting, half lying against his chest. Aziraphale’s tears had futtered to a stop a little while before, but he hadn’t wanted to move and Crowley didn’t seem to be in any rush to make him.

Long fingers moved idly through Aziraphale’s hair in a way that would have sent him slightly mad at any other time. Now, though, they were a simple point of comfort.

“Do you want to talk about it?” said Crowley after a while longer.

“Not really."

“Alright."

After a moment, Aziraphale said, “Do you ever just get a bit… carried away with it all?”

“With what all?”

Aziraphale sighed. The smell of Crowley’s skin bounced back to him with his breath, familiar and comforting. There was, he realised, nobody else in the universe with whom he could have this conversation.

“The pretending. The people we pretend to be."

Crowley made a thoughtful noise. “I don’t really think of it as pretending,” he said slowly. “It’s sort of just a… a different version of me, if that makes sense?”

Aziraphale snorted. “Of course it is. Can’t imagine you being anything less than you."

When Crowley didn’t answer, Aziraphale tipped his head up to look at him. To his surprise, Crowley was looking at him with an expression of disbelief.

“Are you kidding?” he said. When Aziraphale looked confused, he let out a bark of laughter. “Aziraphale, you’re the stubbornest person I’ve met. Wild horses couldn’t make you pretend to be something you’re not."

“Oh."

Aziraphale pretended not to feel the kiss Crowley pressed to the top of his head, for both their sakes. Crowley voice when it came was muffled where his mouth pressed into Aziraphale’s hair.

“You haven’t lied to anyone, angel. Whatever you’ve got yourself into, it’s been you, through and through."

Tears sprang into Aziraphale’s eyes. He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, took a moment. “I wish you’d been here a week ago,” he mumbled. “Everything makes more sense when you say it."

“That’s because I’m smarter than you,” said Crowley, as if it were obvious.

Aziraphale tried to glare at him, but he knew even as he was doing it that it was coming out fond. For a long, still moment, they just looked at each other, gold eyes holding grey, Crowley’s fingers still making slow, soothing shapes against Aziraphale’s scalp.

His face was so familiar, thought Aziraphale. He could have drawn it from memory - save for the freckles that came and went depending on how much sun he’d seen. He suddenly understood the phrase, ‘a sight for sore eyes’. Looking at Crowley was like looking at… Well. It was like looking at an old friend.

“Would you like to play a game?” offered Aziraphale. “I’ve been learning shatranj."

Crowley pulled a face. “The war game? No, ta. I’m rubbish at strategy."

“So am I,” said Aziraphale. “I keep thinking I’m getting better but I’m not, really."

Crowley made a conciliatory noise and kissed Aziraphale on the head again, as if it was something he did all the time. Aziraphale wasn’t going to draw attention to it. That might make him stop, and that would be unacceptable.

Beneath him, Crowley shifted position, getting himself comfortable without dislodging Aziraphale.

“I spy,” he started, “with my little eye, something beginning with… A."

“…angel?”

“Ding ding! You win. Your turn."

Aziraphale snorted a laugh. He thought, and while he thought, Crowley clicked his fingers and a spread of food appeared on the table beside the sofa. One handed, he poured two glasses of wine and slotted one into Aziraphale’s waiting hand. It was rich, and slightly peppery.

“F,” he said.

“F what? You can’t just say F. You have to say the whole thing."

Aziraphale sighed. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with F."

“Floor."

“How did you know that? You cheated!”

“You can’t cheat at I Spy! You didn’t look around, floor’s the only thing you can see from down there. Anyway, my go. I spy with my little eye something beginning with N.”

“…you spell ‘knife’ with a K, Crowley.”

“No I don’t. And that doesn’t count as guessing right - I get another go…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 He would never admit, even to himself, to the small, shameful feeling of relief the thought prompted in him, nor the flash of irritation that invariably came whenever Heaven saw fit to break their silence once more.
> 
> 2 Though it had not yet been quite enough time for the absence to grow heavy and uncomfortable. It had been centuries since they’d been apart long enough to really start to miss one another, a fact that gave Aziraphale too real a sense of comfort for him to risk examining it too closely.
> 
> 3 Aziraphale knew better than to try and hold Crowley’s attention when he got that gleam in his eyes. They’d had a pleasant evening together, drinking Crowley’s wine and sharing stories. Then Aziraphale had taken his leave, with only a very gentle entreaty that Crowley not do anything _too_ hideous in his absence. It was fruitless, he knew, but he felt he ought to at least try.


End file.
